


the wide ocean

by witching



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Domestic Fluff, Fights, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Making Up, Minor Canonical Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Canon, Sexual Tension, Swimming, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, cottage by the sea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21660538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: it's a hard thing, adjusting to a new kind of freedom, relearning the world. there are many ways of handling a change like that, many differing attitudes concerning how to address it, many courses of action to take. it just happens that Crowley and Aziraphale, each in their unique manner, through their processes of personal growth, independently of one another and for wildly different reasons, somehow manage to land on the same big conclusion:I should buy a house on the beach.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 154
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	1. nothing is lost from you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [commodorecliche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/gifts).



> this fic is my gift work for the good omens holiday swap 😊 i had so much fun writing it i hope you like it!  
> title is after the pablo neruda poem 'the wide ocean', and all the chapter titles are from the same poem ❤️

There was a special kind of feeling in the air when Crowley and Aziraphale sat down to lunch on the outdoor patio of a little patisserie in Soho. It was the same special kind of feeling that had saturated the air everywhere they’d been for a while now, but that didn’t make it any less special. Actually, the fact that it never stopped feeling special tended to make it even more special. 

If one were to venture to describe this special kind of feeling, any metaphor would necessarily be weak in comparison to the real thing, but it was a feeling that both beings had been experiencing down to their bones for the past nine months, and a feeling that neither had deigned to mention. It was the moment of shock after having one’s eyes forcefully opened when one hadn’t been aware they were closed. It was the impact of a truck carrying several tons of cargo in crates labeled THINGS TAKEN FOR GRANTED. It was the magnifying, amplifying power of paying attention to things that had hitherto gone unnoticed.

In short, it was the continued existence of the world, and it was very loud.

Crowley ordered the food he wanted to eat, and then he ate it, which was a strange development. He was digging into a slice of strawberry cheesecake when Aziraphale finally brought it up.

“Did you suddenly gain a metabolism?” was how he did it, which was perhaps not the smoothest way to ask such a question.

Crowley looked quizzically up at the angel, his mouth full. He took a moment to chew and swallow and dab at his mouth with a delightfully patterned cloth napkin, and then he cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re eating. Quite a lot, these last months. You never used to eat much at all, as I recall.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, and he smiled. “See, I always had an image to keep up, is the thing. No respectable demon goes around eating strawberry cheesecake, it just isn’t done. If I wanted to eat something, it’d have to be – I dunno, caviar or foie gras or something gross like that. Was easier to stick to wine and bread, mostly.”

“But now?”

“Now? Well. Now, I am very clearly not entertaining any pretense of being a respectable demon. Now, I’m doing what I want.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, nodded his head toward the demon’s plate. “And what you want is… strawberry cheesecake?”

“Yeah. Have you tried the stuff? It’s addictive.” Crowley popped another bite into his mouth, a sound akin to a moan escaping him as the flavor hit his tongue. “And other things, you know.”

There was a beat of silence wherein he valiantly fought back the urge to ask the demon to elaborate on _other things,_ and then Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Is that why you’ve been dressing differently, too?”

“I haven’t been dressing differently.”

“You’re wearing a jumper.”

Glancing down at his cable-knit-clad torso, Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “It’s a black jumper, though, isn’t it. Still me.”

“If you say so,” Aziraphale replied skeptically.

It got quiet again, as Crowley finished off his glass of lemonade, as Aziraphale pecked at the remains of a brioche french toast, as the birds chirped in the trees, as the world continued to turn. The sun was shining and the air smelled like spring and their waiter came by with the bill; her name was Alexis and her smile was genuine. Crowley tipped her 70% just because he could.

“I like this,” he said after a while, when they were just getting ready to leave, and Aziraphale turned around to look at him and was momentarily struck dumb by the smile on the demon’s face, and then Crowley kept talking, as if it was nothing. “I like that we can do this. Talking and everything. It’s nice.”

“We’ve always done this,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, “but haven’t we always been pretending, a bit? Pretending we didn’t enjoy each other’s company, pretending we didn’t like each other. I like not having to pretend.”

Aziraphale turned away, biting down hard on his lower lip. What was he meant to say to that? Crowley had been opening up gradually, like a flower in bloom, for so many months, and Aziraphale had missed it, and now he suddenly felt like a frog finding himself in a pot of boiling water. He should have been paying more attention, he thought, he should have noticed and he should have adjusted accordingly.

Eventually, Crowley placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, which prompted the angel to jump out of his skin. Crowley took a large step back, raising his hands in a gesture of peace, and stared at Aziraphale, furrowing his brow. 

“Are you okay?”

“Me?” Aziraphale squeaked. “Yes, I’m quite alright, thank you.”

“Okay,” Crowley nodded, frowning as the angel turned away from him once more. “Just – you’re acting a bit weird, is all. If there’s something wrong, you know you can tell me, right? You can tell me anything.”

Aziraphale huffed out a breath, thankful that the demon couldn’t see his face. He didn’t want to worry him, but there was only so much he could do when Crowley was being sincere and – almost _affectionate,_ where before he would have been cool and aloof. It was overwhelming, is what it was, and Aziraphale thought perhaps he hadn't adjusted to life post-apocalypse as well as he had believed.

“Nothing’s wrong,” the angel said after a minute, climbing into the passenger seat of the Bentley, stalwartly refusing to look at Crowley. 

Crowley let the issue go without pushing any more. “D'you want to go to the park, maybe? It's nice out."

"I've got to finish some inventory, I'm afraid," Aziraphale replied almost on reflex. It was a flimsy excuse, but a well-worn one, and Crowley understood it perfectly.

"Ah. Okay," the demon murmured. He was a bit disappointed, but he told himself it was only because he enjoyed spending time with Aziraphale, and not because it felt like a rejection. 

The fact was, they had been spending quite a lot of time together lately. Crowley wouldn’t admit to keeping track, but it was the sixteenth consecutive day they had seen each other, and it was the first time in four months that they had gone out somewhere and then parted ways rather than returning together to one of their homes for a drink or a chat. All told, Crowley couldn’t claim to be surprised that Aziraphale wanted to spend the afternoon in solitude.

Still, he didn’t have to _like_ it. He dropped the angel off at the bookshop, waved goodbye, watched as Aziraphale closed the door behind him, and then he was left with nothing but his own thoughts for company.

Crowley made a decision, then. He had never been good at being alone, and without the administration of Hell managing him, he didn’t have much to do anymore. In the past, he might have wallowed or slept the rest of the day away or tried to distract himself with petty demonic work. Now, though, he had a slightly frightening compulsion to use this opportunity to better himself. The only question was what to work on first.

On the drive back to Mayfair, he worked through a list of possible areas where he could improve, and he dismissed several obvious possibilities. He’d already made great strides in allowing himself to enjoy things and to speak his mind. He didn’t feel equipped to tackle his fraught relationship with authority figures, nor to address how that issue informed his relationships with anybody else. 

As Crowley walked up to his flat, more ideas occurred to him that he rejected out of hand. Eventually, lying on his back on the plush carpet in his bedroom, he remembered something. He remembered that there was one small thing that had always held him back, had always been just the smallest hindrance in an otherwise charmed life, that he could easily work on by himself, and have fun while doing so.

What he remembered, deep in his thought process, was that he had always been afraid of the ocean. It was big, and scary, and cold. It wasn’t very demonic of him, but he had had an aversion to the ocean for forever, literally. And if he wasn't going to address any of his graver neuroses, an obnoxious little phobia was the next best thing. 

He smiled softly to himself as he popped open his laptop and began to browse beachfront properties. After all, he thought, if he was going to get over this, he had to go all in. 

* * *

Aziraphale settled comfortably into his favorite chair, prepared to spend at least several hours pretending that the only things that existed in the world were his book and his tea, but he quickly found that his thoughts were uncharacteristically distracting. He didn’t want to think about Crowley, or Heaven and Hell, or strawberry cheesecake, or city noise or rude customers or air pollution. He wanted to think about Esther Summerson or Jane Eyre or Anna Karenina – any miserable heroine would do, really. 

Unfortunately, his mind hadn’t exactly gotten the memo in that regard, and it seemed intent upon dwelling on his own miseries at the moment. With the shop and the city and the Crowley of it all, not to mention Armageddon, it had been hundreds of years since the last time he’d felt peace. 

Of course, Crowley wasn’t the issue. He wasn’t even _an_ issue. He was – well, Aziraphale didn’t dare dig too deep into what exactly Crowley was, but he was a good friend. Aziraphale did like him, he did enjoy spending time with him, and he never thought it was too much. But he had a nagging feeling that he _should_ think it was too much, at some point, and he could only endure that feeling for so long before he had to be alone, even if only for a short time. 

It was all rather confusing. What he needed – what he needed, he decided, was a place where he wouldn’t have to answer to anybody, or remember mealtimes, or see Crowley’s ridiculous giddy smile, the one that always made him forget how to breathe. What he needed was a place all his own. Off the beaten path, at least, if not entirely off the grid.

Aziraphale understood his computer system just far enough to do his taxes, and no further. He hardly knew what the internet was, much less how to use it, but he knew it was faster and easier than looking in the papers or wandering around until he came across something he liked. 

“Emily, dear,” he said, and the computer screen lit up with uncanny speed for a machine of its age. “Can I trouble you for help?”

The screen flashed the words _YES. THAT IS MY PRIMARY FUNCTION. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO ASK._

A slight flush rose to the angel’s cheeks. “Just being polite, old girl. Anyway, I’m looking for a suitably obscure bungalow. Or… cottage, perhaps. Somewhere peaceful. Maybe Cornwall, I would love to see the sun set over the Atlantic.”

_I FOUND FOUR DOMICILES THAT MEET YOUR CRITERIA. WOULD YOU LIKE TO PURCHASE ONE?_

Aziraphale sighed, just the tiniest bit exasperated. "I would love to, Emily, but I need a bit more information before I can pick one. Photographs, maybe, or price listings, or locations?" 

The full work-up of each house appeared on the screen, then, and Aziraphale smiled as he relaxed into his seat to read them. "Thank you, my dear girl," he murmured, patting the top of the monitor gently in a manner that might have been condescending, had he not been talking to a computer.

They were nice places, all of them, but one jumped out in particular – old fashioned, not too big, but with a nice kitchen and well enough room for books. Within two hours, he had completed the process of buying the little seaside cottage, acquiring the title and all. He may have had a bit of an angelic advantage, but he didn't consider it an abuse of his power because – well, because he _really_ wanted it.

It was something of an adventure, hiring a small moving van to take a good portion of his books to Cornwall – not all of them, not by a long shot, but enough that he would never be bored. He would keep the shop, of course, there was never a question of that, but the flat above the shop was entirely superfluous. He moved every bit of it to the cottage, furniture and wallpaper and the electric kettle, and the whole process only ate through one day. 

After the moving was done, Aziraphale returned to the shop and called Crowley and invited him to dinner at a new Thai place they'd been planning to check out. 

They had gone an entire day without seeing each other, which was rare, and Aziraphale was planning on being away for a few days; he wanted it to come up organically in conversation, not just call him up out of the blue with an obvious lie. Plus, he liked having dinner with Crowley. And he liked trying new things with Crowley. And he liked Thai food. 

They ordered a shared platter of shrimp pad see iew, picked at it between them as they talked and laughed like usual. Crowley appeared to be recovered from the slight disappointment of the other day, and Aziraphale appeared to be comfortable and refreshed after his time alone.

"This is fantastic broccoli," Aziraphale said after a particularly satisfying bite. "I don't know what it is about it, but it's really very good."

"It's a good season for broccoli," Crowley nodded in agreement. "Lots of sun, good temperatures. Growing really well."

"That's interesting. What else is good right now? I was thinking I may go to the farmer's market soon."

"Onions, spinach, carrots, asparagus. Lots of stuff."

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully and lapsed into silence. After a few moments, Crowley took a quick breath and spoke up again.

"Speaking of plants," he said offhand, a bit too breezily for it to be anything less than painstakingly curated nonchalance. "I'm going to be out of town this weekend. Any chance you could stop by the flat to keep the lads in line?"

Aziraphale frowned. That was unexpected, but it didn't necessarily put a wrench in his own plans. It certainly wasn't anything he would call suspicious. "Wish I could, dear boy," he said apologetically, "but I'll be away as well."

"Alright," Crowley shrugged. "I'll call Alfie or Gwen. You need someone to check up on the shop? I could ask, since I'm talking to them anyway."

"Yes, thank you," the angel replied brightly. "I would appreciate it very much." 

Crowley smiled as if the angel had paid him a great compliment. Aziraphale smiled as if he were embarrassed to have been so forthcoming with his feelings. The moment passed, and they finished their meal in comfortable silence.

* * *

In spite of himself, Aziraphale felt rather excited for his first real excursion to his little getaway. He was practically giddy with anticipation over the idea of not having to worry about anything for a short length of time; Crowley was occupied with something, somewhere, and one of the local kids was watching the shop, and Aziraphale could just relax, for once in his life.

It was gorgeous outside, and Aziraphale thought that while he would normally spend the whole weekend reading indoors, it might be nice to break the place in with a little swim. The nearest neighbor was on the other side of a small hill, and this slice of the ocean was Aziraphale's private property, as much as a piece of God's earth could ever belong to one being. 

Still, he wasn't some tearaway; despite his seclusion, the inevitable temptation to forgo a swimsuit was fleeting and quickly rejected. He did, with no shortage of sheepish, self-conscious glances about for hidden voyeurs, venture out onto the beach wearing only a pair of swim trunks he'd bought in the 1950s. They were in the style of the time, which meant they were rather short and rather fitted, but not so much as to be truly scandalous. 

He stopped, right at the edge of the water, to take it all in. He had expected the beach to be made of soft sand, so it was, and he had expected the sea to smell fresh and salty and not at all fishy, so it did. His eyes closed, his toes digging into damp sand, he took a deep breath in through his nose, savoring the moment as he had rarely ever done before.

And then he stepped into the ocean, feeling serene, feeling as if everything was good and right and simply beautiful.

And then he heard an awfully familiar voice, and all of those feelings washed away as if stolen by the ebbing tide.

"Aziraphale?"

He tried with all his might to pretend he was imagining it, but Crowley was standing _right there,_ and Aziraphale was forced to look at him. He was shivering just slightly, looking as if he'd stepped into the water for all of one second before giving up on the whole prospect. His hair was dry, his face a shade paler than normal, his eyes wide and bare and nervous. Distantly, reluctantly, Aziraphale noted that the demon smelled rather nice, annoyingly so even from a few feet away.

Aziraphale folded his arms tight across his chest, partially a show of disdain and partially an attempt to cover himself. "Good Lord, Crowley, what are you _doing_ here? Did you follow me?"

"Follow you?" Crowley's brows drew together in consternation as he tried very hard not to examine Aziraphale too closely. There were many things happening at once, but a loud and persistent voice in his head was reminding him repeatedly of the angel's obvious dearth of clothing. "Of course I didn't follow you. What are _you_ doing here?"

"This is my property! And I asked you first!"

Crowley frowned deeply, turning his head to look back in the direction from which he came. "I s'pose I must have wandered a bit farther than I thought. I was just… I was trying to have a swim," he finished imperiously, giving the angel a steady look.

"Obviously!" Aziraphale snapped, raising his voice. "But why are you doing it _here,_ on _my_ beach?"

Wincing at the angel's tone, Crowley shrank back before jumping to defend himself. "Was on _my_ beach just a minute ago," he explained, aiming for a diplomatic tone and missing quite soundly. "I told you, I wandered farther than I meant to. Just looking for the… you know, the perfect spot for swimming."

"What do you mean, your beach?"

"Same thing you meant by it, I expect."

Aziraphale sputtered, meaningless syllables escaping through his teeth, for several long seconds before he found his words again. "No, but – but what is your beach doing so close to my beach?"

"The beach isn't _doing_ much of anything," Crowley teased, chuckling to himself in spite of the angel's reaction. "Come on. It's pretty funny, isn't it, that we ended up right next to each other? Here, of all places? It's an uncanny coincidence, you have to admit."

"Coincidence?" Aziraphale was seething now, his voice low and sharp and dangerous. "Do you genuinely think I'm stupid?"

"What?"

"It was a clear question, Crowley. Do you or do you not think that I am an idiot?"

Crowley shook his head decisively. "Absolutely not."

"Then _how,"_ the angel continued, taking a small step forward, standing just close enough to be slightly menacing, "can you expect me to believe that you didn't do this on purpose?"

"I don't know, I'm – er. I didn't, though," Crowley replied lamely.

Aziraphale laughed, a sound so devoid of humor that Crowley flinched back once again. "It's insulting, Crowley, really."

"Wait a minute, Aziraphale," Crowley said, stopping to process what the angel was implying. "You're saying you think that I… what? Snuck into the bookshop, found out about your secret beach property, uncovered the precise location, tracked down the exact address, and purchased the neighboring house, all just to slightly annoy you?"

"Yes!" Aziraphale shouted, and then scowled. "I mean, no! It's not a slight annoyance, it's a blatant disregard for my privacy and an invasion of the one sanctuary I had."

Crowley gave a slow nod. "Agreed. If I had done that, yeah, it would be very disrespectful. Except I didn't do any of that."

"I don't believe you," Aziraphale replied bluntly, without missing a beat. "What other possible explanation could there be? Why _did_ you buy that house, if not to harass me?"

"I don't have to tell you that," Crowley mumbled, looking down at the ground to hide the flush darkening his cheeks.

"See, I knew you were lying."

"I'm not lying! I just don't want to tell you."

Aziraphale scoffed. "Right. Of course."

Releasing a deep breath in a huff, Crowley ran a hand through his hair anxiously. "I'm going to go," he said, exasperated. "Clearly you're immune to rational thought right now. Call me when you're ready to stop projecting your bullshit trust issues on me."

Then he turned on his heel and walked away, down the long, empty beach. Aziraphale stood there and watched the whole time, half hoping that Crowley would turn around and apologize, half hating himself. He watched until the demon was well out of earshot, watched as he climbed the hill that Aziraphale knew led to his cottage, watched him disappear over the other side.

Well, the angel thought, a peaceful dip in the ocean was definitely off the table for today.


	2. a fruit of your gifts and destructions

Monday morning, Aziraphale returned to London, had a nice bath, and opened the shop for all of twenty minutes before calling it a day. He was tired, he reasoned, defending himself to an invisible critic; he had spent the entire weekend being quite cross, and it had taken a lot out of him.

For a while, he floated from task to task, attempting to keep himself busy, attempting to keep from thinking about Crowley. He was momentarily distracted when he saw the cozy cardigan that Crowley always borrowed when he got cold in the bookshop, draped over the back of the sofa where he always left it, but a trivial miracle took care of it, banishing the sweater out of sight, out of mind, and into the darkest recesses of Aziraphale's closet. He ended up doing the same with the throw pillows and the blanket, the novelty mug he kept around for Crowley to use, and a pair of sunglasses the demon had forgotten. 

Then, around mid-afternoon, the little bell over the door rang, interrupting the angel's fuming thoughts, which themselves had interrupted his endeavor to organize his books in order according to the type of tree their paper was made from. The door had been locked, but it was never locked for Crowley.

"Angel, hi," the demon greeted him, breezing into the room and handing him a cup without ceremony. "Brought you some tea. Thought you might… well, you like tea."

Aziraphale blinked slowly once, twice, as if Crowley might disappear, and then he chanced a sip of the tea. It was perfect, infuriatingly so. "Thank you," he murmured softly, letting the warmth of his gaze do most of the talking. 

After glancing around for a reason to change the subject, Crowley leaned against the angel's desk and picked up the nearest book. "How's the shop today?"

"It's fine," Aziraphale answered blankly. "Closed, mostly."

"Right. You been up to anything fun?"

"Not particularly."

"Right," the demon repeated.

A long beat of awkward silence, stretched out for what felt like hours, eventually forced Aziraphale to address the elephant in the room. "We should talk about the beach issue," he announced, sounding defeated. 

Crowley slumped forward, every tense muscle in his body unwinding with relief. "Oh, thank Satan," he muttered under his breath, and then raised his voice and continued, "I was really beginning to think that was a dream. Yeah, please, let's talk about it."

Aziraphale took a deep breath, anchored himself to the point where his hands were wrapped around a warm paper cup, and spoke softly. "Did you really not do it on purpose?"

"I really didn't," Crowley replied fervently. "I promise."

"Should I believe you?"

Crowley paused, blowing a slow breath out through his teeth. "Honestly, Aziraphale… if you can't have a little bit of faith in me, even now, then I don't know why I even try." He rubbed his eyes and dragged his fingers down his cheeks, looking drained. "I'm not lying to you. I wouldn't lie to you."

"Not ever?"

"Not about anything important," Crowley amended gently. "And certainly not any more than you've lied to me over the years."

Aziraphale looked deep in thought for a moment, and then he fixed a searing gaze on Crowley's face. "Why did you buy the house?"

"I'm not going to lie to you," Crowley replied, walking on eggshells as if talking him down from a ledge. "But that actually is private. I'm not telling you. Why'd _you_ buy the house?"

Aziraphale heaved a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head. "I don't know, Crowley. I just… I needed a place to get away from it all."

"To get away from me, you mean."

"No!" Aziraphale said too quickly. "I mean, a bit, but only insofar as you exist as a part of the world at large." He paused, taking in the demon's uncomprehending look, and sighed again, softer. "It's everything. The city, the people, the shop. It gets overwhelming, even the things I love, and I just wanted somewhere I could relax."

"Alright," Crowley breathed eventually. "Alright. So, what do we do now?"

"I don't know," the angel admitted. "What do you think?"

"I think you and I can behave like civilized beings, learn to coexist, and respect each other's boundaries. How does that sound?"

"I think you should sell your house."

"What?"

"I had mine first," Aziraphale whined petulantly, and without any concrete knowledge of the fact. "It's only fair."

Crowley narrowed his eyes at the angel. "We both purchased separate houses and plots of land with our own money. That's fair."

His jaw set, Aziraphale rolled his eyes disdainfully. "Well, if you won't give up the house, then there's only one thing to be done for it."

"What's that?"

"When we're here in London," Aziraphale explained steadily, diplomatically, "we pretend the cottages don't exist. And when we're down there, we pretend we don't know each other."

Crowley balked, thinking he must have misheard something coming from the angel's mouth. "That's insane," he said earnestly.

"Take it or leave it," Aziraphale said, airy and imperious. 

"Fine," the demon bit out, pushing himself up off the desk and heading for the door. "It won't work," he added, tossing the words backward over his shoulder before accidentally slamming the door hard enough to drop the bell. 

* * *

After that, things returned to some kind of normal for a while. They had lunch together, or dinner or breakfast or tea or drinks, they hung around the backroom of the shop into the wee hours of the morning, they fed the ducks in the park, and they steadfastly did not talk about their houses on the beach. A problem in Cornwall was not a problem in London, and that held true for a few weeks.

Until one day, just after swiping up a melted puddle of green tea ice cream with his finger and popping it into his mouth, Crowley leaned across the table with a conspiratorial look in his eye. 

“There’s a pair of tickets available,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “for _Tartuffe_ at Lyttelton Theatre this Saturday, if you’re interested.”

“Oh, crumb,” Aziraphale lamented, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That sounds lovely, but I’ll be away this weekend, I’m afraid.”

Crowley pursed his lips and nodded, the gears already turning in his head at maximum speed. “Alright, that’s fine,” he assured the angel. “No worries.”

“I do hope I haven’t put a damper on your plans,” Aziraphale said, fretting and wringing his hands.

“No, you haven’t.” Crowley offered up a tight smile, shaking his head. “The tickets will not go to waste, I promise.”

It wasn’t a lie, not really. Alfie and Gwen liked comedies, and the tickets weren’t cheap, so Crowley considered it a good deed to gift them to a young couple who could use a little bit of culture in their lives. Not that he would tell them that. He also didn’t tell Aziraphale that, but he didn’t lie, and that was the important bit.

* * *

When Aziraphale took his trip down to Cornwall for the weekend, he was surprised and more than a little incensed to see the Bentley parked in front of Crowley’s cottage as he passed by. He recalled their agreement to pretend they didn’t know each other down here, and that was the only thing that stopped him from marching right on up to the demon’s door and giving him a piece of his mind.

Instead, he went to his own house and locked the door and closed the blinds, effectively hiding himself away to read and simmer with his anger. He got about halfway through _Wuthering Heights_ before there was a knock on the door, firm but polite. He paused, glaring in the direction of the sound, and set the book aside.

A single whiff of the air told him it was Crowley at his door, along with something else he couldn't put his finger on. For a brief moment, he considered not answering it, but then he thought about how much he would like to give Crowley what for, and if the demon was breaking their agreement first to come visit him, then Aziraphale would be well within his rights to tell him how he felt about it. So he made for the door, swung it open with a glare fixed and ready on his face, and then froze at the sight before him. 

It was Crowley, as expected, but he was smiling – not a mischievous grin, not a friendly lopsided smirk, but a wide, bright, toothy smile – and holding a large dish of some sort of food. It looked delicious, but Aziraphale managed to school his expression to hide his interest. He looked at Crowley expectantly, waiting for some sort of explanation as to what was going on.

“Hello, neighbor,” the demon chirped, unfazed by the angel’s stoney face. “I noticed you were in and I thought I should come on over and introduce myself, since we’re new neighbors, and all. My name's Anthony.”

Aziraphale ground his teeth together quite hard, uncaring of the pain in his jaw, and took a deep breath, closing his eyes and counting to ten very slowly in his head. This was above and beyond what he could have expected from Crowley, truly, and he was entirely unsure how to respond. He wanted to tear into him, but then he would be the one creating a problem while Crowley maintained his plausible deniability – he was only acting in a neighborly manner, after all, as if they didn’t know each other, which was exactly what Aziraphale had asked for.

“Hello, Anthony,” the angel muttered curtly, refusing to return Crowley’s smile or show any sign of being _charmed_ by this display. Which he wasn’t, of course.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Crowley answered warmly. “Maybe we could get to know each other sometime.”

“I’m busy that day.”

“I didn’t suggest any day in particular.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Whatever day it is, I’m busy that day. Do you need something?”

Crowley could easily have taken offense to the angel’s attitude, except he was fully aware that he had provoked it, purposefully and skillfully. He kept smiling. “Not in the least, my friend,” he said. “Just wanted to say hello and drop off this casserole for you.”

Looking surreptitiously at the dish, Aziraphale noted that it appeared to be crafted specifically to his tastes, to no surprise. It had all his favorite spring vegetables, which Crowley _knew,_ and chicken and some kind of cream sauce. He turned his nose up at the demon, sniffing derisively, and gave him a cold, narrow stare.

“Sorry. It seems like maybe you don’t like casserole,” Crowley said, sounding apologetic. “I’ll just be on my way, then.” He turned to leave, and took half a step before Aziraphale spoke up.

“Wait,” the angel called, still fuming, and Crowley looked back at him with a question in his eyes. Aziraphale took a breath, shook his head, and continued speaking as if it physically pained him to do so. “Of course I want the casserole.”

“Do you?” Crowley’s eyes lit up, his smile tentatively returning. “You’re not just being nice?”

“Do I look like I’m being nice? Give me the bloody casserole, please, and go away.”

“Okay,” Crowley replied, handing over the dish. “See you around, er…?”

Perhaps there was a tiny, tiny, impossibly miniscule part of Aziraphale’s brain that recognized that the game the demon was playing at was very good. Maybe, on some level, he recognized the humor in it. Mostly, though, he was irritated beyond belief. So, rather than playing along and telling Crowley his name as if they were just meeting, he simply said “Goodbye,” closed the door in his face, and locked it again, for good measure. 

The casserole was the only thing Aziraphale ate that weekend, and it was fabulous.

* * *

Crowley spent the rest of his weekend planning more little ways to get under the angel’s skin. It was so _easy,_ was the thing, and mountains of fun to boot, and the more he annoyed Aziraphale now, the faster the angel would realize and admit that this whole double life thing was positively ridiculous.

It took several weeks of hanging out in the rowdiest pubs and clubs, getting acquainted with as many deviant punks as he could find, before Crowley managed to throw his first party. It was some effort and coordination, to plan an event so massively obnoxious that it sprawled across his entire property and created an almighty nuisance for his nearest neighbor.

In the meantime, Crowley cultivated his cottage’s garden. The garden, incidentally, was more of an orchard, and much like his party project, it took up his entire property. There was no order, no tidy little rows of plants, just a veritable jungle of bushes and flowers and trees. In addition to fruits and vegetables, aloe vera, and other plants for his own practical use, he also planted ivy, juniper, cypress, jasmine, yucca – all manner of plants intended to attract rats and bats and anything else the angel might find undesirable, should it wander too close to his house. 

Of course, Crowley did most of this work clandestinely and remotely from London, where Aziraphale also spent the majority of his time. He asked Anathema for help, being that she was likely objectively the coolest person he knew, and swore her to secrecy, because the last thing he wanted was for the angel to become suspicious. So while the rapid growth of Crowley’s massive garden was an occasional thorn in Aziraphale’s side over time, it was never bad enough for him to respond, until the parties started.

It was magnificent, if one were to ask Crowley, and horrific, if one were to ask Aziraphale. There were hoodlums and delinquents of all walks of life in attendance, but primarily of the type who, like Crowley, had little respect for authority and a great respect for humanity. In addition to being sincerely good people, they also filled the precise niche of things that Aziraphale would try to object to on the principle of propriety, but would quickly realize he could find nothing actually wrong with them, and would end up quite egg-faced.

Holly and Jasmine rode big, angry-looking motorcycles and wore big, angry-looking boots, and they had been to jail seven times between the two of them: six for aggravated assault of various skinheads and one for destruction of government property. They had three dogs and they frequented karaoke bars. 

Peter was a quiet sort with many piercings and even more tattoos, and his hair was a different color every month. He took care of his dad, who was old and sick, and he worked seven days a week and he was exhausted, and he still came to Crowley's parties because they felt like home to him.

Selma was a sweet girl who fronted a heavy metal band and also worked in a cupcake shop to get through her degree in accounting.

Bernard grew pot in his basement and was working on a novel.

Aziraphale knew nothing about them but what he could glean through furtive glances out his window at whoever was closest to his house.

What he knew was that their music was impossibly loud, literally, amplified by Crowley’s demonic power, and it was so strange to the angel’s ears that he wasn’t entirely convinced Crowley hadn’t simply recorded audio of a highway traffic jam.

Crowley was sure to get an early start, and he started off strong. It was mid-afternoon and there were dozens of guests scattered across the grounds, playing games, drinking, talking loudly. At around eight o’clock, Crowley brought out a biblical feast of pizza. By midnight, people were still arriving in droves while others were taking their leave. 

Aziraphale was quite vexed by the party, because of the noise and the rowdiness, but what made him furious was the fact that nothing bad was actually happening. He thought if Crowley’s guests were littering, or lighting things on fire, or fighting each other, he might feel more justified in his desire to put an end to it, but all they were doing was having fun, and all Aziraphale could do was seethe over it for hours on end. 

The next day, Aziraphale walked over to Crowley’s cottage and knocked on the door and politely requested, in a neighborly fashion, that he try to keep it down in future. Crowley nodded and smiled and apologized, with no plans whatsoever to keep it down. After all, he reasoned to himself, he would gladly rein his parties in if it were his best friend Aziraphale asking, but not for any old neighbor.

That was only the first party. There was a similar event every single time that Aziraphale and Crowley’s visits to their cottages coincided, which was an average of twice a month. It was perhaps the eighth or ninth party when Aziraphale decided he had had quite enough of the nonsense. Sometime around three in the morning, as he was beginning to hope that maybe the noise was dying down, it suddenly worsened tenfold, and in a rash moment of decision, Aziraphale blinked, and all of the music was Brahms. Every phone, every speaker, every boombox and turntable was playing Brahms, and none of the party guests could explain why, nor could they figure out how to change it back. Within twenty minutes, everyone had decided the party was a bust and gone home, but not before helping Crowley clean the place up.

And then, after nearly a whole summer of passive aggressive warfare, Crowley finally, finally broke their agreement with one text message. One text message that tore down the walls between their lives and acknowledged their ongoing feud. One very simple text message, sent from one demon to his best friend very late at night.

> _you couldn’t have just called the cops??_

Aziraphale read it and smiled in spite of himself before replying.

> _Please. I’m an angel, not a fascist._

Crowley clutched his phone tight to his chest, giggling to himself, feeling positively giddy. He lay in bed for hours until some point just before dawn when an idea occurred to him. Well, it was less of an idea and more of a scheme. It was a covert operation to trick Aziraphale into being his friend again through the delicate art of getting him drunk and talking to him.

Crowley jumped up to go search for his best stationery, and then he remembered that his best stationery was in London, so he ran out to buy some nice stationery. Then he wrote a little note.

> _Hey, neighbor!_  
>  _Just kidding, I know you’re Aziraphale. Acting like strangers was really stupid. Anyway, I know my parties have been bothering you, so I was thinking maybe, instead of sitting at home alone and being mad at me, you could come to one of them? You might have fun. In fact, I’m sure you’ll have fun. I hope you’ll come this Saturday night._  
>  _Ciao_

He miracled the note into Aziraphale’s mailbox, thinking it might ruin the whole thing if he actually ran into the angel in person while trying to sneak it in there. After that, all that was left was to wait.

* * *

That next party was a bit tamer than the previous ones, being not specially arranged to get on Aziraphale’s nerves. It was still loud and crowded and uncomfortable, but Aziraphale went anyway, if only to satisfy his own curiosity. He didn’t see Crowley at all for the first hour or so, but he knew the demon well enough to be able to suss out where he kept the good booze, and he found a comfortable chair in a corner in which to sit back with an entire bottle of very expensive scotch. 

He had to admit, it was a good vantage point for passive enjoyment of the party. He was well past drunk enough to be amused by everything taking place in the room, and he easily lost track of time just watching people mingle, spill drinks on themselves, trip over each other. He heard snippets of conversations that warmed him to several of the party guests. It was almost – _almost_ – a disappointment when he saw Crowley making his way over.

“Angel!” Crowley was suddenly very close, and even in his own state, Aziraphale could tell the demon was drunk. “I’m so glad you came.”

Aziraphale laughed, putting a hand on Crowley’s arm as the demon began to sway slightly. “Of course, dear boy,” he slurred, smiling widely. “I’m having m’self a lovely time, in fact.”

“Sss’good,” Crowley replied vaguely, his eyes locked on the place where the angel’s fingers rested on his arm. Whether it was due to the alcohol in his system or the distracting power of Aziraphale’s warm touch, Crowley lost his balance more than before, all but toppling over with an undignified yelp. Aziraphale caught him just barely, but he was not himself coordinated enough to set the demon right, so it turned out that after a moment of flailing limbs, Crowley found himself situated in the angel’s lap.

Rather than push him away, as Crowley expected, Aziraphale wrapped an arm loosely around his waist. It was more an attempt to get his hand free from where it was trapped against his chest than anything else, but he did inadvertently pull Crowley a little closer, and then he cocked his head to the side and looked up at the demon. 

Just enough time for a breath went by, and then Aziraphale blurted out, “Why do you smell so good?” 

Crowley blinked, shaking his head in confusion, as if there were some magic phrase that the angel could utter to make the question less strange. When no magic phrase procured itself, Crowley pressed for an explanation in the most eloquent manner he could muster:

“What?”

“You smell _so_ good,” the angel repeated, exasperated. “It’s annoying. Why do you always smell so good?”

Crowley froze for a moment, furrowing his brow. “I don’t – I don’t know,” he stammered, tripping over his words from nerves as much as from intoxication. 

Suddenly, Aziraphale leaned in close, very close, until his nose was almost buried in the crook of the demon’s neck, and inhaled deeply. He was miles away from the kind of cognitive processing it would require to understand that it was odd and vaguely inappropriate to sniff his best friend. He was also well beyond any self-restraint in the area of strange noises of satisfaction that could, by some small stretch of the imagination, be described as moans.

When he pulled back, Crowley was staring at him, wide-eyed. Aziraphale didn’t know when the demon had removed his sunglasses, but he was glad for it as he met his shocked and slightly scandalized yellow gaze. It evened the playing field, insofar as vulnerability and nakedness went.

Crowley took slow, shallow breaths, his lips parted in surprise, almost completely still and painfully aware of how close Aziraphale’s face was. Mesmerized by the proximity, without reason or conscious thought, he moved closer, slower than a glacier and just as unstoppable, until the distance between their lips was microscopic.

Aziraphale’s grip tightened on the demon’s waist, his heartbeat thundering in his chest, his eyes slipping closed of their own accord.

And then time returned to its normal speed, and in a fraction of a second, Aziraphale had turned his head, pushed Crowley firmly away with both hands on his shoulders, and sobered himself up so hard he thought he might have a negative blood alcohol content. Crowley, reeling from the sudden distance, lost his balance and fell backward onto the floor. He barely had time to look up before he saw the angel stand, shoot him a desperate look, and walk away.


	3. vigilant spaces of air and darkness

Crowley woke up first to the warm and comfortable thought of Aziraphale's arm around him, burned into his skin and his mind like a brand, and then the throbbing headache hit him hard, effectively putting an end to his moment of happiness. After he registered that one physical ailment, the rest of them fell upon him like bricks: the dry mouth, the rippling nausea in his gut, the light shining through the window as if the sun were right next door.

It was a blessing in disguise, really, because it meant that it took a good few minutes before he remembered how the rest of the night had gone.

Well, sort of. He remembered the part where he was a hair's breadth from drunkenly, stupidly kissing his best friend, but everything after that was a blur. He knew, based on common sense and his entire physical presence, that he must have continued drinking for quite a while after Aziraphale left. He didn't know when the party had ended, or who had carried him to his bed and tucked him under the covers and locked the front door on their way out. 

A quick glance at his phone told him it was Sunday, and thankfully he had only slept through one night, rather than several days, as he had been known to do in the past. And it was morning, too. Crowley jumped up in excitement, groaned as his muscles protested the sudden movement, winced as the groan made his head pound, and then ran out the door without bothering to put shoes on. Because Sunday morning meant it was likely that Aziraphale hadn't left for London yet.

There was no answer when he knocked on the front door of Aziraphale's cottage, or the side door, or the back door; they were all locked as well, and this felt like one occasion where a locked door meant something more than a locked door. He chanced a peek through the sitting room window and saw nothing but an empty sitting room. 

Crowley didn't like to think he was snooping or intruding, but he told himself it was important at the very least to ensure the angel was alright, even if he wouldn't talk to him. So he kept trying, knocking firmly but politely on the door for about half an hour before a chipper voice popped up behind him with a "Hi!"

He spun around to see a young woman, bright and freckled and smiling, holding a key. "Er, hi," he replied with stilted uncertainty. "Who are you?"

"I'm sorry, so rude of me not to introduce myself," said the girl earnestly. "I'm Eliza. I'm watching the house."

"Watching the house for Az- for, erm, Mr. Fell?" Crowley rolled his eyes subtly, the way he always did when he had to acknowledge Aziraphale's pseudonym.

Eliza nodded. "You got it! Do you know him?"

"Yeah," Crowley said offhand, furrowing his brow. "So – he's not here?"

"No, I'm afraid not," Eliza answered, looking genuinely sorry. "He said he had to go back to London for business, and not to expect him back for a while."

"How long is a while?"

"I don't know, he wasn't very specific. It seemed like he was in a hurry."

"When was this?"

"Just this morning," Eliza said, fiddling with the key in her hand and glancing a tad nervously over Crowley's shoulder. "I'm sorry, sir, but I really should get on with this, I've got to get to class soon."

Crowley bit his lip, shook his head, and sighed. "Right. Right, yeah, you go ahead. Sorry to keep you." He paused for a moment before adding, "I'm Anthony, by the way."

Eliza gave him a kind smile. "That's okay. It was nice to meet you, Anthony."

Crowley smiled back at her, offered a small wave, and left more confused than he'd began.

* * *

He shouldn't have been surprised, all things considered, that Aziraphale had wanted to get as far away from him as possible. He shouldn't have been surprised that the angel had run off back to his bookshop without a word, leaving Crowley to wonder and worry. He shouldn't have been surprised, is what he told himself, because it was easier to swallow than telling himself he had absolutely no right to feel hurt and abandoned.

He stayed there at the cottage for a few weeks; he had no concrete obligations in the city, and he wanted to give Aziraphale the space he so clearly desired. 

Most of Crowley's time was spent alone. It wasn't as if he had nothing to do without Aziraphale around. He had other friends, certainly, and he enjoyed doing things sometimes that weren't Aziraphale's cup of tea, but that was always when Aziraphale was busy or away or when they just happened to not be together. It was different when Aziraphale was avoiding him; it made him despondent and anxious and he couldn't bring himself to commit to any sort of distraction.

He also couldn't bring himself to completely abstain from contacting Aziraphale. For the most part, he was following the angel's lead, waiting for him to reach out, but Aziraphale hadn't actually _asked_ to be left alone, so Crowley texted him every few days, innocent little things that could either be ignored or spur a conversation, depending upon if and how Aziraphale responded.

> _hey angel, hope you're alright_
> 
> _tried that coffee shop in town. i think you'd like it. good scones 👍_
> 
> _you remember diderot? he was quite the lad_
> 
> _saw this frog today who looked like you_
> 
> _sorry i didn't mean you look like a frog. the frog just looked very smart and a bit cross with me_
> 
> _can we talk?_

After three and a half weeks of unanswered text messages, Crowley accepted that it wasn't working, so he broke out his fancy stationery once again. It had worked the last time, after all, and he didn't have any better ideas. He would simply pop the letter into the bookshop via miracle, somewhere Aziraphale would be certain to see it, and then _something_ would have to happen.

Luckily, one of Crowley's many skills was a deft hand at calligraphy. He usually kept it under wraps, preferring the minor chaos and confusion that arose from his nearly illegible print, but it was a handy skill to have when trying to win over a friend who valued those sorts of things. He found a fountain pen from the 18th century and wrote in large, delicately looping script across the top of the page:

> **_I'm sorry, Aziraphale_ **

Positive that it would grab the angel's attention enough that at least he wouldn't immediately throw the letter in the nearest bin, or possibly fireplace, Crowley got to work on the rest. In the end, he was quite proud of what he wrote. He wasn't much in the habit of being vulnerable or sincere, but this was important, so he swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and forced himself to write how he felt.

> _Truly, I mean it, angel. I'm sorry, and I just need you to please read this letter, if nothing else. Please give me that._
> 
> _It wasn't meant to happen like this at all. I didn't want anything to get weird or uncomfortable between us. We can pretend it never happened, or we can talk about it, or whatever you need. Whatever you want._
> 
> _The thing is, angel, I can't lose you. I need you, alright? You're my best friend and I just don't know what I would do without you. I seriously don't know. In six thousand years, I've done nearly everything. I've learned dozens of instruments and hundreds of trades and thousands of languages, but I've never learned how to live without you, and I don't want to start now._
> 
> _So, that's it, I guess. Listen. Take your time, take however long you need, but please don't write me off. Please forgive me._
> 
> _Love, Crowley._
> 
> _P.S. Sorry again about the frog thing._
> 
> _P.P.S. I wrote this letter with a pen I stole from Diderot_.

When Aziraphale reached the end of the letter, he was hit with the distressing realization that he wanted to cry. It wasn't something he did often, and the dull burning behind his eyes seemed to throb with his pulse, every beat of his heart encouraging him to burst into tears.

Needless to say, he felt awful. Nothing had even happened, really, and here he was making Crowley wait for him, making Crowley fear for their friendship when he hadn't even done anything wrong.

Aziraphale didn't realize he'd dialed the phone until Crowley picked up.

"Angel," he breathed, the relief flooding his tone bordering on reverence.

“Crowley,” said the angel, closing his eyes, collapsing into a conveniently placed chair. “Crowley, my dear, I am… so sorry. How can I ever make it up to you?”

Crowley paused, gaping silently for a moment. _“You’re_ sorry? Aziraphale, _I’m_ sorry, so sorry, you have no idea how sorry I am.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, my dear, truly. Let’s – we don’t have to talk about it.” Aziraphale sighed. “Can we do lunch?”

“Gosh, yes,” Crowley answered without missing a beat, already mentally packing to return to London. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow? We’ll do the Ritz?”

“Erm, well. I was thinking. We could go somewhere a little bit more – cozy? More personal, perhaps?”

Crowley huffed gently, pursed his lips, nodded slowly. “Yeah, yeah. We can – you wanna grab some pierogi? S’been a while, yeah?”

“It has. That sounds lovely.”

“Alright. I’ll – see you tomorrow, then.”

Aziraphale smiled, feeling some of the weight lift off his shoulders – not entirely, but it was a start. “Wonderful. I’ll see you tomorrow, my dear.”

“Goodbye, angel,” Crowley murmured gently before hanging up the phone.

* * *

Hardly two minutes after they had walked in the restaurant, Aziraphale and Crowley both regretted it immensely. Wrapped up as they were in their respective guilt and anxiety over their little rift, they had both seemingly forgotten that it was the single most difficult place in the world to have a private conversation. The fact that they hadn’t eaten there in several months only added to the problem.

Everyone knew them, was the thing. It was a small and warm and homey restaurant where the staff felt like family and the food was made with a double serving of love. Aziraphale and Crowley had been eating there regularly since the 1980s, and the owners were more than a little invested in their personal affairs. 

“It’s nice, though, isn’t it,” Crowley remarked with a faint smile, after the fourth time that the owners had come to their table to talk their ears off.

Aziraphale took a sip of his wine, still furtively watching to be sure the couple wasn’t going to turn around and come right back. “What is?”

“Being here,” Crowley shrugged. “It’s a bit annoying, sure, but it's normal, you know? We want normal, don’t we, after all that?”

The angel sniffed dismissively, fidgeting with his napkin, avoiding eye contact. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.”

 _“You_ said we didn’t have to talk about it,” the demon pointed out. 

_“You_ said we could forget it ever happened,” said the angel.

Crowley frowned. He did vaguely remember writing that in his letter, but then at the time, he’d thought he was begging for forgiveness. He really would have said anything to get Aziraphale to talk to him. And he had meant it, of course, he hadn’t been lying, but he also hadn’t been privy to the angel’s thoughts on the matter. “I… yes,” he said after a lengthy pause. “But so long as we’re on even footing here, I’d like to talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

A groan escaped Aziraphale without his intending it, which he managed to turn into a groan-like “Why?” He sat up straighter in his seat, cleared his throat, and strained with the effort of sounding curious rather than accusatory. “And what do you mean, even footing?”

Arranging the greens on his plate into the image of a flower, staring intently at the table, Crowley answered in a voice like a wisp of a cloud. “Even footing, meaning you’re not mad at me. Because,” he continued slowly, cautiously, “if you’re not mad at me, then I don’t really know what’s going on, and I would like to know what’s going on.”

Concerned at the angel’s lack of immediate response, Crowley looked up to see him furrowing his brow, deeply confused. The demon jumped to explain, the words coming out in a mumbling rush. “I just mean, I thought you were avoiding me because I’d made such a monumental ass of myself, and you’ve made it clear that’s not the case. But I can’t imagine why else you would suddenly vanish for nearly a month.”

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale replied, offering up a smile that was warm and guilty at once. “I was ashamed of myself. It would have been too uncomfortable to face you after I ran away. I didn’t think it would affect you so, me disappearing like that, and I feel simply horrible about the whole thing.”

Crowley blinked several times before speaking in a hollow tone. “You didn’t think it would affect me?”

“Not quite like that, I mean.” Aziraphale wrung his hands anxiously in his lap. “I thought – well, I thought you might appreciate some space after I made such a fool of myself. I never thought you would blame yourself for it.”

“That is… immensely stupid,” Crowley stated plainly. “Please don’t do it again.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“I mean it, Aziraphale. We’re friends. I’ll leave you alone if you need alone time, but you can’t make presumptions about my feelings. You need to talk to me.”

Aziraphale nodded solemnly. “I know. I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Good. Glad we got that cleared up.” Crowley brightened by increments, warming up to the situation. “Oh, and one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Things should really be the same, don’t you think? Wherever we are? It’s all much too complicated, playing these games. Can’t we just be friends here and friends there?”

Aziraphale thought for a moment, then nodded again. “Yes,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “Friends here and friends there.”

Just then, the elderly couple who owned the restaurant stopped by for another chat. Words flowed more easily after the air had been cleared, and Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves laughing and feeling the warmth of a nearly familial bond as they spoke. 

Crowley spent around ten minutes attempting to convince the owners to franchise the establishment and open up a branch in Cornwall, for the sole benefit of himself and Aziraphale. They laughed him off and teased the two about their relationship, as most people tended to do around them. Things quickly returned to normal.

Three and a half weeks was a shockingly short amount of time, in the grand scheme of things, but it had been the longest Aziraphale and Crowley had gone without one another since the apocalypse. Crowley had been ready to tear his own hair out, and Aziraphale had been anxious day and night over it. So it was a relief to both to find that it remained as easy as breathing to fall back into themselves and their relationship, to be together and to talk.

They returned to the bookshop together after lunch, taking drinks and continuing to talk, catching up on the time they’d missed. Crowley was shocked he had anything at all to say, considering how little he’d done when they were apart. He listened with rapt attention to Aziraphale's recounting of book sales and customer interactions, answered with his own stories of blueberry danishes and the young woman he'd met outside the angel's front door.

When Crowley passed out on Aziraphale’s sofa after drinking two bottles of wine in the backroom, the angel tossed a blanket over him, far from surprised, and turned the lights down just enough. Bright enough to read comfortably, low enough to soften the angles of Crowley's face as he slept peacefully for the first time in a month. 

Aziraphale was sure, down to the very core of him, that nothing could be better than keeping Crowley as a friend.


	4. falling wave, arch of identity

The lives that Crowley and Aziraphale led took on a delicate balance, a careful and precarious arrangement of time spent together and apart, words exchanged, topics discussed and avoided. They put in the time and effort that it took to make their coexistence at the cottages as smooth as it was in London. Sometimes they were there at the same time, and other times one was at the beach while the other stayed in the city.

Crowley downsized his garden to include the things he really wanted – the fruits and vegetables and herbs, mostly, plus a few flowers – and get rid of the ones he'd only planted to get on Aziraphale's nerves. He also started to take some of his pickings to the local farmer's market, basking in the praise and adulation of the public at his impeccable wares. He kept the best ones for himself, though, of course. Himself and Aziraphale.

It was an undeniable force of habit before a month had passed; when they were down at the cottages, Crowley brought over his plumpest and ripest produce and watched Aziraphale transform it into something wonderful. Aziraphale was magic, Crowley thought, more so than he'd already known, because his innate talent for cooking was just impossible.

One afternoon, resting in the angel's sitting room after consuming a frankly irresponsible amount of ratatouille, Crowley looked up from his spot on the sofa and took a breath. "You know," he began, in the specific manufactured casual manner that meant he'd been thinking about something very hard, "I was thinking of having another party sometime soon."

Aziraphale cocked his head at an angle, feigning a reasonable level of interest, though he wasn't entirely sure if he was actually more or less interested than he seemed. "Oh? That'll be nice."

"Yeah," Crowley agreed warmly. "Maybe this weekend?"

"Are you asking me?" Aziraphale furrowed his brow, frowning deeply.

"Yeah," the demon answered without hesitation. "I want you to be there."

"Alright," said the angel, glancing at him softly. "How about Saturday?"

Crowley returned the angel's gaze easily. "Saturday it is. Anyone you'd wanna invite? What about music and food?"

There was a pause then, one that seemed to pulse with potential, until at last Aziraphale spoke again, sounding as if he were afraid the wrong word might set off a bomb. "Crowley, do you… I mean, is this… are we _co-hosting_ a party?"

"Not as such, no." Crowley ran a hand through his hair, though gravity made it fall right back into his face. "You don't have to worry about helping with any of it, if that's your concern."

"There's no concern," Aziraphale corrected him quickly. "I just want to know. You usually don't ask for my input on these things, is all."

"Well," Crowley mumbled, injecting his words with a dangerous amount of nonchalance, "I want you to have fun."

Aziraphale beamed; he couldn't help it, truly. He put some small effort into softening his expression, but there was simply nothing to be done for it. "Thank you," he said brightly. 

Crowley looked a bit of a mess, his legs slung over the arm of the sofa, his hair trying its utmost to be in his face and sticking up in every direction at once, his eyes beginning to droop, but the smile on his face didn't suffer one bit for it. "Of course," he murmured. 

And for the first time, Aziraphale really heard what Crowley was saying. _Of course_ he wanted him to have fun. _Of course_ he wanted him to be happy. There was never, ever a question of that. Aziraphale suddenly felt monumentally stupid all over again as he recalled how hard he had tried to keep Crowley at arm's length.

He shook the thought away, reminding himself that they were here now, and dove into his list of ideas for party food.

* * *

When Saturday rolled around, Aziraphale spent the whole day in Crowley's kitchen, whipping up hors d'oeuvres while Crowley taste tested. The guest list was set, a much smaller and more intimate group than any of the demon's other parties, and the cottage was cleaned, though there wasn't much work to be done in that area. 

By the time the party was set to start, Crowley was almost nervous, but he couldn't say why. He told himself it was only a slight disappointment due to the fact that a few of his friends couldn't make it to the party, but that was a thin excuse. He put himself on door duty, told Aziraphale to let him do the talking, ignored the confused and slightly affronted look the angel gave him, and thanked his lucky stars when he was saved by the bell as the first guests arrived.

Holly, never one for tact, skipped right over all the niceties, took one look at Aziraphale on the other side of the room and said, "Isn't that the prissy neighbor that you hate?"

"No," Crowley answered quickly, and then pressed his lips together tightly. "Well, sort of. He is the person you're thinking of, but I don't hate him."

Aziraphale, who was tending to the arrangement of the snacks, smiled and waved. Jasmine waved back at him, nudging Holly in the side to prompt her to do the same, and then turned to Crowley.

"It sure seemed like you hated him for a while there," she said, her brows drawn together as if trying to puzzle out whether this was some sort of hostage situation. "He was at the last party, right? I saw him hiding in a corner."

"He wasn't hiding," Crowley replied, coming off rather more defensive than he'd intended. "He was waiting for me. And I never hated him. We were – it was sort of a game."

"I see." Holly glanced over at Aziraphale again, then Jasmine, then back at Crowley, raising a mischievous eyebrow. "We play games like that, sometimes."

Jasmine snickered as Crowley's face rapidly turned red. He stammered a few broken fragments of protest, but before he managed a single full sentence, the doorbell rang again. 

It was Eliza, the only person that Aziraphale had wanted to invite, the only person that he had met during any of his trips to the cottage. They hardly knew each other, she was just someone he'd found to look after his house while he was away, but he figured she might hit it off with some of Crowley's crowd. Young people and whatnot.

After everyone had arrived, it turned out he was right; Eliza and Peter were old schoolmates, though they'd never really been friends, and they were chatting up a storm all evening. 

In fact, everyone seemed to get along swimmingly, so it was a bit baffling to Aziraphale that Crowley appeared to be having at least three simultaneous attacks, of the panic and/or anxiety and/or heart varieties. His gaze flitted nervously between his guests all night, he hardly spoke or ate, and he refused to stay seated for more than two minutes at a time. He would jump out of his seat, start gathering up used plates, offering drinks as if his life depended on it.

The fifth or sixth time he tried to buzz around the room like an anxious and overly helpful fly, Aziraphale watched him very closely. When Crowley went to the kitchen, the angel excused himself to go as well.

"Crowley, stop." His voice was firm but kind, forcing the demon to stop in his tracks and turn to look at him. "What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing's wrong," Crowley replied in the high-pitched way he often spoke when something was definitely wrong.

Aziraphale reached to place a soothing hand on his shoulder, but Crowley jerked away as if the touch would burn him. Frowning, the angel lowered his hand and glanced toward the doorway, ensuring they were out of earshot of the people in the other room.

"I know that's not true," he murmured as he looked back to Crowley. "You look – _terrified,_ actually. Is it Hell? Has something happened?"

"No, angel, I'm fine," Crowley snapped, then instantly regretted it, softening his tone considerably. "I'm just – I'm trying to get more drinks for our – for my guests."

Aziraphale nodded. Apparently, he was not going to get anywhere with Crowley by applying pressure, so he opted for another strategy. "Let me do it," he said gently. "You go mingle, I'll grab drinks."

"There's a lot –," the demon started, but Aziraphale gave him a look that said there was no room for argument, so he bit his tongue and reluctantly returned to the sitting room. 

He sat on the sofa, wedged between Peter and Jasmine, now even more nervous for the fact that he knew how nervous he looked. 

"He'll be right back with the drinks," he said to the room with a tense smile and a nod toward the kitchen. There was a long beat of silence, then he said, "Why are you all looking at me like that."

Peter clucked his tongue in a manner that managed to be patronizing, even coming from a scrawny young man who couldn't even complain to a waiter if he found a hair in his food. "We were talking while you were gone," he replied casually. "Debating, really."

"Debating what?" asked the demon.

"If you two are sleeping together," Holly answered. "And if not, how long until it happens."

Inexplicably, Crowley looked to Eliza for help. She was blushing slightly, though it was unclear whether it was due to the alcohol or the subject matter. She neither met Crowley's eyes nor said anything to mitigate the embarrassing situation, so he took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair to steel himself before responding.

"We are not," he said simply.

Holly and Eliza shared a victorious look while Jasmine and Peter groaned. 

"I told you, I _know_ these things," Holly taunted her wife.

"I've seen Mr. Fell's bedroom, and there is just _no_ way that man is getting any," Eliza crowed. 

Peter nudged Crowley in the ribs with his elbow. "See what you've done?" he said with a despairing look at the demon and a frustrated wave of his hand. "They'll never shut up about it now."

"That's my fault?" Crowley balked.

"Yeah, it is," Jasmine said as if it were obvious. "Will you get on it, at least?"

"Get on what?"

"Bedding the man!"

Crowley wrinkled his nose. "That's your word choice?"

Jasmine kicked him in the shin. "Not the point!"

"And what is the point?"

"The point is getting you laid," Holly drawled.

"I see," the demon said pensively, rubbing his chin. "And, er… why?"

"Because we love you," said Jasmine with a sage nod, a gentle hand over Crowley's knee. "We know a problem when we see it. You're lonely, dude."

Crowley frowned and pursed his lips. "I've got you guys. And I've got him. We're friends."

"You look at him like you're thinking about eating him whole," Peter scoffed.

"Like a snake looking at a mouse," Eliza agreed.

Crowley laughed. He couldn't help it. Unfortunately, his friends were not in on the joke, and they took his laughter for denial, which earned him several odd looks ranging from amused to pitying.

“Come on, man.”

“You _can’t_ pretend you’re not attracted to him.”

“It’s sad, honey, really.”

His face heating up, Crowley folded his hands in his lap and stared at them determinedly. Briefly, he considered lying, until it occurred to him that making some minor concessions in this battle might save him some trouble. He blew a breath out through his teeth and shook his head, preparing to say something he very much didn’t want to say.

It was simply a fact of life for Crowley, being attracted to Aziraphale. He had long been under the impression that this was an objective assessment, that everyone saw the same thing he saw when he looked at the angel, which was not the case. In truth, Aziraphale did not have conventional good looks; to most humans, he appeared to be a fairly average-looking middle-aged man, although his angelic presence lent him a general sort of magnetism.

Crowley thought he was the most beautiful thing in the universe, and he didn’t think it was odd, and he didn’t think it went any deeper than that. He pulled at a thread on his sleeve to avoid looking at the others while he spoke.

“Of course I’m attracted to him,” he said in much the same manner that one might say _Of course I know who Beyoncé is_ or _Of course I'd like free food._ “Have you _seen_ him?”

Holly punched the air triumphantly. “I knew it!”

“We _all_ knew it, sweets,” Jasmine replied, rolling her eyes before turning back to Crowley. “Anyway, I don’t see why you can’t sleep with him, if you think he’s hot.”

“Obviously, he’s gorgeous,” Crowley sighed, failing to catch the way his friends were looking at him, “that’s not up for debate, but – he’s my friend, alright? My very attractive platonic best friend. Can we drop it, please?”

"Okay," Holly said dismissively, already having moved on to her Plan B. She handed Crowley her phone, which she'd been using on and off through the conversation, revealing a picture of his face with his name beneath it. "Here. Start swiping."

"Start – what?" Crowley took the proffered device, not knowing what else to do. "What is this? Why is this?"

"It's a dating app, dumbass. If you won't seize the fruit that's right in front of you, you should find _someone,_ at least."

"It doesn't have to be anything serious," Peter assured him, leaning over his shoulder to see the profile Holly had set up for him. "Just put yourself out there and see where it goes."

Crowley furrowed his brow. "But why?"

"You just don't do much," Peter replied casually. "When was the last time you went on a real date?"

The true answer to that question was not something Crowley could say aloud. The last time he'd gone on a date had been sometime in the 1960s, when a very smooth and charismatic man charmed him in a way he had never been charmed. He had wined and dined Crowley, they'd spent one night together, and then they never saw each other again.

In this company, however, nobody knew he was immortal, and therefore he should not have been alive in the 1960s. He tried to think of a suitable analog for how old he was meant to be, but math was never his strong suit, and he was silent for too long.

"It's been quite a while," came a voice dancing in from the direction of the kitchen.

Crowley looked up to see Aziraphale in the doorway, carrying a small tray of personally customized cocktails for each guest. The angel was smiling, which he took as a good sign, but his eyes held something deeper, something indecipherable. Crowley couldn't help but wonder just how much of their conversation he had heard.

As Aziraphale passed out the drinks, he continued talking, seemingly only to Crowley, who was busy having a bit of a crisis. "Hasn't it, dear? I daresay you haven't been on a proper date in years."

 _Years_ was accurate, Crowley supposed, so long as he didn't specify how many years. "Yeah, it's been a long time," he replied, his voice strained. “But that doesn’t mean I’ve _got_ to –”

“But do you want to?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, his expression kind and non-judgmental. To the rest of the people in the room, it seemed an innocent question, lacking the borderline accusatory tone with which the angel sometimes spoke to Crowley. 

When he thought about it, Crowley considered that it might have been a genuinely innocent question, that Aziraphale might simply have been joining in the conversation that was already in full swing by the time he’d entered the room. There was a rational part of the demon’s brain that reminded him that just because it was something he didn’t want to talk about, especially with Aziraphale, didn’t mean he was doing it on purpose. They were friends, after all, and Crowley wasn’t even sure why it was so much harder to have this discussion with Aziraphale present than it had been without him.

“I guess it can’t hurt,” he said eventually. “Could be fun.”

A rousing cheer went around the room as everybody huddled around Crowley to help him figure out the whole swiping thing. Once he got the hang of it, it became mildly entertaining, and he quickly warmed up to the idea of going on a date, especially when he actually started getting messages. 

“Oh, that one’s perfect,” Peter said, reaching over Crowley’s shoulder to point out a particular message. “Say yes. Say yes to him right now.”

Crowley appraised the message – a greeting, a compliment, a request for a date, clean and simple and smooth – and the man – Richard, 46, Libra, sleek and modern and hip. He did seem perfectly matched to the type of human Crowley presented himself to be. Crowley handed the phone to Eliza and mumbled, “You do it.”

“Why me?” Eliza asked, though she didn’t seem too disappointed about the responsibility she’d been given.

“You’re the only person here that I trust to give him an answer without saying anything fucked up,” Crowley replied. Then, seeing the others’ affronted looks, he added, “I’m including myself.”

By the time he had finished answering the question, Eliza had already sent Richard a response. She gave the phone back to Crowley. “You have a date next Friday night,” she said nonchalantly, “at some fancy restaurant in London. He’ll meet you there.”

Crowley uttered a quiet “Thank you,” while Peter, Holly, and Jasmine jumped for joy, finally satisfied. Eliza smiled, first at Crowley and then at Aziraphale, who looked oddly proud of her. He had been afraid she wouldn’t get along so well with Crowley, being as similar to himself as she was, but he was pleased to see that she balanced him out in a similar way as well. 

The subject of Crowley’s love life was not brought up again for most of the rest of the evening, much to the demon’s joy. On her way out the door, Jasmine offered a sincere wish for him to have fun on his date, which her wife punctuated with an exaggerated wink. Peter and Eliza walked out together after telling Crowley they were very proud of him, which he couldn’t help but find hilarious coming from a pair of young adults who were, in actuality, marginally more well-adjusted than he could hope to be. 

And then it was just Crowley and Aziraphale. It was late, nearly midnight, and they didn’t waste any time cleaning up from the party; a small number of minor miracles handled it nicely. Aziraphale excused himself to the kitchen to make tea, and Crowley thought about inviting him to stay the night, but he managed to talk himself out of it by the time the angel returned carrying two cups of tea.

The angel peered at Crowley over the rim of his cup. “It was a lovely party, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, it was nice,” Crowley answered. He paused, briefly gauging whether it seemed like Aziraphale knew something he shouldn’t, or was thinking something he wasn’t saying, but he could glean no secret information from the silence. “Thank you for being here,” he said eventually.

Aziraphale smiled. “Of course,” he murmured, his voice gentle and warm. “Always.”

* * *

Friday night, Aziraphale planned to stay in at the bookshop and read, which was far from unusual for him. What was unusual was that he kept his mobile phone by his side while he read, rather than turned off and shoved in the back of a drawer somewhere. He had promised Crowley that he would keep it close just in case. In case of what, he was not entirely sure, but it had seemed important to Crowley, so he agreed.

And somehow, even with that knowledge shared between them, Crowley still managed to show up at the shop unannounced. Aziraphale’s first thought when he heard the door open was that he had lost track of the time, but a quick glance at the clock told him it was only eight o’clock. His second thought, which came only after Crowley had made his way to the back room, was that the demon looked very nice.

“It’s early,” he said bluntly as Crowley flung himself onto the sofa. “You look very nice,” he added after a moment.

“Thanks,” Crowley replied unenthusiastically, turning his head to meet the angel’s gaze. “I know. Wasn’t worth it.”

Aziraphale frowned. “It didn’t go well?”

Crowley shook his head, holding out his hand at the same time to manifest a full glass of wine from raw firmament. He downed half of it in one go before setting the glass down on the floor and grunting, “Nuh.”

Taking the cue that this was a drinking sort of conversation, the angel summoned his own glass of wine. “Well, what happened?” he asked, hoping distantly that Crowley might become more talkative once he got more wine in him.

“Nothing, really.” 

“What do you mean, nothing? You wouldn’t be here if nothing had happened.”

“No, it was actually nothing.” Crowley heaved an exhausted sigh. “I just – I wasn’t enjoying it. Not at all. And I tried, angel, I tried to – to _want_ to be there with him, but I just didn’t. I wanted to be here.”

Aziraphale blinked a few times. “Oh.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Crowley said, waving a dismissive hand in the air, polishing off his glass of wine in a breath of a pause. “Tell me something good.”

* * *

Four hours and six bottles of wine later, Crowley had taken a winding path around every safe topic of conversation and looped back around to drunkenly ramble about his date. Aziraphale was pleasantly drunk enough to sit back and listen supportively.

“I dunno, angel, it was jussst – he was just ssso… London.”

“What does that even mean?”

Crowley furrowed his brow, frowning deeply in thought, swallowing hard and wincing at the aftertaste of his drink. “I dunno,” he said at length. “He was – he just _was._ I can’t talk it any better.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale replied with a laugh and a small nod.

“Angel, can I tell you something?” Crowley looked up at him now, his eyes wide open and earnest. When the angel nodded his head again, Crowley took a beat before speaking in a quiet slurring sort of groan, nearly unintelligible. “I fff – I fucking – I hate it here, angel.”

Aziraphale was thrown, sputtering at the unexpected confession. “What?”

“I _hate_ it here,” Crowley repeated more emphatically. “London. It’s the worst. Sondheim said it.”

“He did,” Aziraphale agreed tentatively. “But you – we’ve lived here forever, Crowley.”

“Well, I’m sick of it. I want to go…” the demon drifted off, trying to figure out where he wanted to go. “Ocean,” he declared after a moment, latching onto a thought that threatened to run away. “Want to go live at the Cornwall. In cottage. Beach.”

“You’re making very little sense,” said the angel.

“I hate it here,” the demon mumbled sadly.

Aziraphale offered a sympathetic nod. “So you’ve said.”

There was no response, because Crowley had fallen asleep almost before the words had left his mouth. Aziraphale took a few seconds to notice, and then he went over to the sofa and gingerly lifted the glass of wine from the demon’s hand, setting it down on the table. He propped up Crowley’s head long enough to stick a pillow under him, then covered him with a throw blanket. Just as he was going to walk away, it occurred to the angel that it must have been uncomfortable for Crowley to sleep in a tie, so he resolved to take care of it for him, and his shoes for good measure. 

The demon stirred vaguely as Aziraphale slipped the tie off his neck and made a sound that was somewhere between a hum and a groan. His eyes remained closed, so Aziraphale soothed a hand over his hair and shushed him gently before leaving him to his rest.


	5. the vessel filled with all motion

Despite his level of inebriation at the time of the initial decision, Crowley found that his feelings did not change when he awoke, when he was sober and free of his hangover, nor after a lengthy period of consideration. He simply had no desire to stay in London. His flat was flashy and modern, but it was no home; Aziraphale lived in London, but he also lived right next door to Crowley's cottage; anything he might want to do in London was worth a day trip out there more than it was worth staying for. 

Aziraphale didn't quite understand Crowley's decision, but he supported the demon through the process. They spent several days and nights together at Crowley's flat packing up what remained of his belongings. It wasn't much, but many drinks and digressions made it take longer than was strictly necessary. 

Though he appreciated the angel's assistance and encouragement, Crowley made it a point to schedule the big move for a day that Aziraphale would be busy with some bookshop deal in France. It was silly, but he couldn't bring himself to say goodbye. He knew Aziraphale would still be around and that he could see him whenever he wanted, but somehow it felt like he was abandoning his best friend, and he didn't want to see the angel's face when he left. 

Still, it wasn't a secret when he was moving, so it shouldn't have surprised Crowley that there was a gift waiting for him at the cottage. It was a modest-sized box, wrapped in a rich blue paper with his name written in Aziraphale's unmistakable hand. 

Not wanting to distract himself while his house was still packed in boxes, Crowley waited to open it, delicately setting the present aside to focus on unpacking his belongings. He made it about fifteen minutes before he gave up on manually setting up his home, sighed, and finished the job with a quick miracle. 

He turned back to the blue package, now the only box in his proximity, and ran a hand along one edge of it. Moving cautiously, as if the paper wrapping and the thin cardboard of the box were as precious as the gift itself, he opened it. Inside the box was a folded garment, dark and loosely knit, a note laid on top of it which read:

> _Crowley, I wish you nothing but joy and prosperity in your home. This is a bit of an adventure, you making a big change like this, making a decision for your own happiness. It's admirable. I will miss you, though, even if it's only a short distance, and even if I can come down to stay at the cottage whenever I wish. Hopefully, this will help you remember me when we're apart. I think you'll get more use out of it than I will. Plan on me visiting soon and often. Love, Aziraphale._

Crowley shook his head slightly, unsure how he should feel. He felt warm, mostly, and something else, a nebulous feeling that he could only compare to embarrassment, a red-hot ball of lead in his gut from the sincerity of the note. Aziraphale's sincerity was Crowley's vulnerability. All he could think was that it was a good thing the angel wasn't there to see him well up when he read it. 

It took a moment before Crowley even remembered that there was a gift in the box, as well. He gingerly unfolded the garment to find that it was a sweater. It was _his_ sweater. 

Well. It was not actually his, strictly speaking, but it may as well have been, for all intents and purposes. He had only seen Aziraphale wear it a handful of times, and he'd owned it since at least the 1950s. He knew for a fact that the angel kept it in the backroom for him, never moving it from the place where Crowley left it, never putting it away. And now he had _given_ it to him.

Crowley just stared at it for a long minute. It was such a perfectly Aziraphale gift to give, he thought fondly; practical and personal and vintage all at once. The demon lifted the sweater and buried his nose in it, taking in the scent of the bookshop and the angel, that scent that lingered always, always, no matter how little Aziraphale actually wore it. He savored the earthy musk of it before slipping into it, pushing the long, loose sleeves up his wrists.

It was getting late, he noted with a glance out the window, and he was tired, despite having done rather little. His big, soft bed was all prepared for him, thanks to his earlier miracle, and he didn't have any responsibilities to tend to. Without much ado, he burrowed down into the plush blankets, wrapped up in the sweater Aziraphale had given him, and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Crowley felt like he was boiling alive in a sea of Aziraphale. He was hot all over, inside and out, and he could smell the angel, could practically taste him. One second he thought he would rather like to taste him, and the next second he had his mouth on every part of the angel. 

He hadn't been sure until that moment whether he was drowning in Aziraphale or just the memory of him, but now he was solid and present and Crowley was sucking little marks into his throat, licking long lines down his chest, laving his tongue over scars and stretch marks and just so much Aziraphale. 

And the angel was loving it, too. He panted and moaned and carded his fingers through Crowley's hair as the demon sucked hard at his collarbone. He gasped out little fragments of words and phrases, a litany of _Yes good Crowley yes more please lower harder Crowley yes_ –

And Crowley woke up.

He poked his head out from under the blanket to take in his room, pitch black and dead silent. Blinking the sleep away, shaking himself free of the remnants of his dream, he groaned and rolled over. Unfortunately, the movement had the dual consequences of stirring the scent of Aziraphale from the sweater, kicking up a waft that took Crowley’s breath away, as well as drawing Crowley’s attention to the situation between his legs.

He let out a groan as he realized his boxer briefs were soaked through. “Fuck,” he whispered, his voice ragged and thick from sleep. “What the fuck.”

* * *

Crowley spent the next few days in his house, trying his blessedest to think about anything but his dream. It had been a subconscious response to the thoughtful gift and being away from Aziraphale and being alone after a big change in his life. That was his mantra, and he repeated it to himself every time his mind began to drift toward the vivid sounds and smells and tastes he’d dreamed up. 

He refused to dwell on it. He refused to give it any consideration. He refused to sleep for three days. And when Aziraphale came back from his trip, Crowley pushed it down and refused to let on that anything was wrong. He refused to _let_ anything be wrong.

Aziraphale stopped by Crowley’s house before anything else, not even bothering to drop his bags off at his own place first. When Crowley realized this, pointed out how the angel looked travel-worn and appeared to have been wearing the same clothes for at least two days, Aziraphale gave a bright little laugh, stepping inside and setting his bags down before enveloping the demon in a tight embrace.

“An express trip from France to your front door,” he teased. “I had to prioritize, after all.”

Crowley hugged him back, wrapping his arms tentatively around the angel’s soft middle, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that he’d stopped breathing entirely. “Glad you put me first, then,” murmured the demon, his tone falling just short of the levity he had hoped for.

He gave Aziraphale the short version of the house tour, seeing as he’d already owned the house for a while, and all that had changed was that it now had more furniture and more items and belongings taking up space. Still, Aziraphale looked and listened with rapt attention while Crowley detailed the process he had gone through to purchase a new sofa, because his old one had been uncomfortable and impractical, and the new one was soft and plush and still rather stylish. Crowley was rambling, he was aware, but it was better than some of the alternatives, as far as stupid actions went. Eventually, they settled into the big, comfortable couch together and opened a bottle of wine.

“Oh dear, I almost forgot,” Aziraphale exclaimed during a lull in conversation. He shifted in his seat and leaned over the arm of the sofa to reach into his bag, pulling out a bundle wrapped in cloth, and presented it to Crowley. “I brought you something.”

"Gosh, angel, you didn't have to do that," said the demon, looking reverently at the gift. "You already gave me a housewarming gift."

Aziraphale's cheeks flushed a little at the mention of the sweater, which was fortuitous because it kept him from noticing Crowley's cheeks flushing more than a little. "Yes, well. This is just something I picked up in France. We always bring each other souvenirs."

"I suppose we do," agreed the demon, who was busy thinking about the etymology of the word _souvenir_ and the note Aziraphale had written with the sweater. As if he could ever forget the angel. As if he needed any help remembering.

"Are you going to open it?"

"Yeah," Crowley muttered distractedly. 

He unwrapped the cloth, a deep red silk, trying not to focus on how closely Aziraphale was watching him. Inside was a small vial of salt and a loaf of bread. Crowley smiled.

"Thank you, angel."

Wringing his hands, the angel stammered nervously. “It's to christen – that is, to bless – er. For the home. You know what I mean. It’s tradition.” 

"It's how we keep our balance," Crowley replied softly.

Aziraphale beamed so brightly that Crowley felt something unpleasant twisting in his stomach and had to turn his gaze to the floor. A moment passed, and then the angel prodded him gently on the shoulder and said, "There's something else in there, too."

Cautiously, Crowley searched the folds of the fabric for something he had missed and pulled out a tiny box. He opened it to see a silver ring, designed with two clasped hands. He took it out of the box, inspecting it up close, trying it on, staring at it in appreciation.

“It's not actually a Claddagh ring," Aziraphale said apologetically, as if it were a detraction, "because there's no crown and heart. It’s a fede gimmal ring.”

It took him a moment to place the words Aziraphale used. He knew _fede,_ he could see the hands, but he had to think a bit harder on _gimmal._ When he remembered what it meant, Crowley nearly gasped aloud, removing the ring from his finger to look at it again. Sure enough, when he pulled at it just right, the two hands opened and the ring became three interlocking circles, one for each hand and the third adorned with a tiny skull with diamonds for eyes. Twisting the rings back together into one, the demon watched the hands envelop the skull and hold it safely in their joined grip as it returned to its original position.

"Wow," he breathed, awestruck, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. "Wow, Aziraphale. Thank you."

The angel gave him a small smile, still nervous around the edges. "I'm so glad you like it," he said in a rush. "I was worried it might be a tad too sentimental for your tastes."

Crowley looked up at him for the first time since he'd seen the ring. "Angel, it's perfect," he said fervently. 

The tension fled Aziraphale's face, replaced instantly with a desperate sort of relief, then a more poised expression. He shifted in his seat, smoothed his shirt down with his hands, cleared his throat. For a long moment, Crowley was unsure whether he was preparing to say something important or simply changing the subject. 

"I've been thinking," the angel began, and then paused. "Can I tell you what I've been thinking?"

"Of course," Crowley answered without hesitation.

Aziraphale smiled tightly and nodded his head. "I've been thinking it might be fun to go for a swim sometime."

Crowley froze, the color draining from his face. "Swimming? Why swimming?"

"Swimming is fun," the angel answered patiently, "and we both own beachfront property."

"That doesn't mean we have to swim," the demon squeaked.

"Obviously we don't _have_ to." Aziraphale struggled not to sound wounded. "Do you not want to?"

Crowley gave a wordless grunt, a noncommittal shrug, and turned his face away. He could feel the angel's gaze on him, burning a hole in his skin, trying to figure him out. 

When he realized that Crowley was not going to give him any explanation of his own volition, the angel spoke up, his voice small and guilty. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked. "I thought that you – we were back to normal."

"No, angel," Crowley said quickly, "you didn't do anything wrong. It's just… swimming. Caught me off guard a bit. We've never done that before, it's not our normal."

"I just thought it was a nice idea, but I guess I was wrong," Aziraphale murmured, now sounding very openly hurt, unconvinced by the demon's reassurance.

Crowley wrestled with his inner angel for a long minute, torn between his reluctance to tell the truth and his guilt over hurting Aziraphale's feelings. He looked at the angel's vulnerable and anxious expression, then back down at the ring he'd given him, and gave himself a stern lecture before his guilt won out.

"Fine," he huffed in frustration. "Fine. I have to tell you something. Since we're friends. And you can't laugh at me."

"Alright," the angel replied warily. 

"I can't swim."

"You… can't?"

"I don't know how."

"Oh." Aziraphale smiled, not the mocking grin that Crowley had expected, but a soft, warm smile. "I'll have to teach you, then."

At first, Crowley swallowed nervously at the thought of going in the ocean, facing the fear that he had yet to confront. Then it dawned on him that Aziraphale would never let him get hurt. He was safe, so long as he was with Aziraphale. His fear of bodily harm faded, only to be succeeded by a much more intense fear of humiliation. 

Aziraphale had seen him scared before. Aziraphale had helped him through difficult situations before. Aziraphale had saved his life before. But this was different – a swimming lesson involved less clothing and more touching than anything they had done together. Crowley thought of his dream, and he thought of himself as small and vulnerable as he felt, of being lost and afraid in the vast cold of the sea, being swept up in the angel's strong arms, being held in his warm embrace, being saved by him.

It was embarrassing to be so helpless, he told himself. It was unbecoming of a demon. And then there was the issue of leaning too far in the other direction – if he began to enjoy it, if he began to _crave_ it, that would be bad in an entirely different way. He could only imagine what would happen if his mind flooded with memories of that blessed dream while Aziraphale was in front of him, touching him.

It was a lot to think about.

Somewhere along the way, Crowley heard himself agree to do it, though his mind was still rather preoccupied. Aziraphale didn't seem to notice his distraction, or didn't want to ask, because he took Crowley's acceptance at face value, told him to be ready to swim the following afternoon, and left.

* * *

The first thing that Crowley noticed when he wandered down to the beach, five minutes late for his swim lesson, was that Aziraphale was not wearing a shirt. He had expected, or perhaps hoped, that Aziraphale would be the type for swim shirts. It certainly would have made his afternoon easier.

But Aziraphale was shirtless, his broad chest and his soft belly on full display, which Crowley thought was frankly very rude of him. Granted, Crowley was not wearing a shirt either, but he wasn't the kind of person who would do that. He also wasn't, as far as he knew, the star of the angel's most recent sex dream. So it wasn't hypocritical of him at all.

Aziraphale didn't sense anything wrong, of course, because he was so eager to teach Crowley to swim. It was a genuine and contagious sort of excitement, not quite strong enough to overpower the demon's anxiety, but almost. 

"Ready?" The angel clasped his hands together, smiling wide and bright. "I thought we could try floating to start."

"Okay," Crowley muttered unenthusiastically. "There isn't like – customary – I don't know, stretches or, or a – a prayer we have to do first?"

“A _prayer?”_ Aziraphale asked incredulously, already two steps into the water, turning to give Crowley a disbelieving look. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Crowley bit his lip, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I just think it’s important to get all the ceremony out of the way before we, er… dive on in, as it were.”

“There isn’t any ceremony, Crowley. You just do it.”

“Are you sure?”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and placed his hands on his hips, reluctant to answer the demon’s question lest he give off the impression of wanting to entertain whatever ridiculous crisis he was having. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said at last. “Are you coming?”

The water looked cold, even more so than usual, and Crowley eyed it with distrust. “In the water,” he said flatly.

“Yes, Crowley, in the water,” replied the angel, irritation coloring his tone.

Crowley nodded his head and took a tiny step forward. “You want me to come in the water.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale snapped. “It is a prerequisite for swimming.”

“Getting in the water,” Crowley repeated robotically, staring at the ground.

Finally, Aziraphale threw his hands up in the air and huffed out a frustrated breath. “Crowley, what is your problem? I’m trying to do a nice thing, here, and you’re making it very difficult.”

Crowley winced at Aziraphale’s tone and mumbled an unintelligible response without looking up at the angel’s face. He felt rather small, and he had a hunch that seeing the way Aziraphale was looking at him would only make it worse, and he didn’t fancy finding out how much worse it could get.

“I can’t hear you,” said Aziraphale, still annoyed but with some of the edge taken off.

“I said I’m scared.” Crowley spoke louder and clearer, balled his hands into fists at his side and screwed his eyes shut tight, hiding from the embarrassment of saying the words aloud. “I’m scared of the water, that’s why I don’t know how to swim. I’m afraid to go in the ocean. I thought that buying a house by the beach would help me get over it, but I can’t fucking do it, alright, I just can’t.”

The angel was silent for long enough that Crowley was forced to open his eyes and look up, if only to make sure he was still there. He was surprised to see that Aziraphale was not only still there, but standing much closer than before, out of the water and only inches from the demon’s face. His eyes were wide, his brow wrinkled, his lips turned down; it was undoubtedly an unhappy expression, but Crowley couldn’t place it as anger or frustration or contempt or disdain or any of the other emotions he had come to expect.

Then Aziraphale said, “Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry,” and his voice was so small and broken that Crowley stopped breathing for fear that his shaky exhale might give way to tears. It didn’t hurt that not breathing also meant he couldn’t smell the heady, earthy spice of the angel’s skin, mitigating the issue of his proximity and helping Crowley keep a level head.

“You don’t have to be,” said the demon, swallowing the urge to offer a reassuring touch. 

Aziraphale seemed to read his mind, reaching out to take one of Crowley’s hands in both of his own. “No, I do,” he protested, “I am. I shouldn’t have pushed you, my dear, I’ve been terribly insensitive.”

Staring at the place where the angel was holding onto him, Crowley felt anchored, even more than he felt a bit high from the skin contact. “It’s okay,” he muttered softly, “you didn’t know.”

“No, but I wasn’t thinking, I should have – I don’t know. I feel awful.” Aziraphale shook his head, pressing his lips together. “We don’t have to do this today. Let’s… let’s go inside. I’ll make you some tea.”

Crowley nodded, half numb, and allowed himself to be led up the beach and into the angel’s house. Aziraphale apparently felt amazingly guilty over the whole ordeal, because he lit a fire and sat Crowley down in front of it, wrapped a blanket around him and put the kettle on, and offered his finest Swiss chocolates, which Crowley gladly accepted. He warmed up and his mood brightened in increments as he realized just how heavily his fear had been burdening him while he insisted on bearing it alone, how relieved he was now to know that his best friend would help him carry it. Crowley still thought he’d quite like to overcome it one day and learn to swim, but in the meantime, this alternative wasn’t too disappointing.


	6. your whole force heads for its origin

Aziraphale was having trouble with his brain. 

He called it trouble with his _brain,_ rather than his _mind_ or his _thoughts_ or just _him,_ because it made it sound more biological and less preventable, more detached and less voluntary. It was the little choices in diction that made it possible for him to live with himself, sometimes. 

The trouble with his brain was that it kept thinking about kissing Crowley. Aziraphale had no idea why his brain was doing this, as he had certainly not granted it permission to do so, but it was on his mind all the time since their aborted swimming escapade.

At first, he thought it was some inexplicable reaction to his own guilt, as if his brain believed that kissing Crowley might make up for his thoughtlessness. But the guilt faded after a few days, logic assured him that Crowley had forgiven him and they could move on, and the thoughts continued in full force. 

Then he told himself that he was fixating on it precisely because it was a ridiculous idea, that his brain kept bringing it to the surface to remind him how outlandish and impossible and stupid it was. He couldn't quite rationalize that explanation to himself, though, because it was difficult to believe it was such a wild idea when he was staring at Crowley's mouth.

He told himself he didn't want to kiss Crowley, repeated it like a mantra every time the unwelcome idea presented itself. It was practically magnetic whenever they were actually together, a constant distraction for Aziraphale, but he resolutely refused to entertain it as a serious possibility. 

It was a petty temptation, really, and he had been around for six thousand years, and he could resist temptation. He may have been a bit out of practice at it, but he knew how. And it worked out; he was able to restrain himself and carry on conversations and have meals and drinks with Crowley, and even convinced him to go in the ocean, all without kissing him even once. He was rather proud of himself, all things considered, for at least a few weeks.

Until one day, sitting down to lunch after a somewhat successful foray into the water, Aziraphale had another thought. He was almost used to the kissing thoughts, could almost tune them out, but this was different. As he watched Crowley take a bite out of an apple, the smallest trickle of juice running down his chin, Aziraphale thought about not just kissing him, but _tasting_ him. _Knowing_ him.

Mortified, he scrambled to his feet with a flimsy excuse, something about needing to organize his shelves, and practically ran back to his house. Crowley was confused, but not overly concerned, so he went home and busied himself in the hopes that whatever was going on with Aziraphale might clear itself up in short order. It was less than an hour later when he received a text:

> _Apologies for running off without proper notice, but I've had to go back to the shop for a few days. Back soon._

Well. It was something, at least. Crowley was a little thrown by the angel's spontaneity, but it wasn't like he'd done anything wrong. He lived in London, after all, and he'd been down at the cottages with Crowley for several weeks by that time, and it only made sense that he would have business to tend to. 

So Crowley concluded that he couldn't really be upset about the angel's sudden flight. But he didn't have much to do without Aziraphale around, either. He tried to sleep, but he couldn't clear his head, couldn't stop thinking about Aziraphale long enough to drift off. 

He missed him. That was alright, Crowley thought, that was normal. He could admit it to himself, even though it felt rather pathetic that he couldn't pass a minute without wanting him near.

Unfortunately, wanting him near rapidly devolved into thoughts of _wanting_ him, and Crowley couldn't handle that. He would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to sleep, and then he would think of that satanforsaken dream and it all went to shit.

It didn't take long before it became too much for Crowley to handle. He quickly resorted to desperate measures: if he concentrated very hard, he could physically rearrange his brain chemistry and force himself into a long, dreamless sleep. It would pass the time, at least, if nothing else. 

* * *

When Crowley woke up, it was with the distinct flavor of angel in his mind. He didn’t know what day it was, what time it was, he barely knew _where_ he was, but he knew Aziraphale was close. Upon opening his eyes and turning his head, he saw how right he was – the angel was sitting at his bedside, looking prim and patient, reading a book.

He noticed Crowley stirring, jumped a bit and set his book aside. "Hello, my dear," said the angel, as if they had just met up for lunch on prearranged plans, as if he weren't in Crowley's _bedroom._ "I'm so glad you're awake."

“Er. Hi, angel.” Crowley sat up with a grunt, his voice thick with sleep. “What are you doing here?”

“I was a tad concerned when you didn’t reply to my text message, but I didn’t want to bother you, so I let it go for a few days.” Aziraphale neglected to mention that he had been dealing with his own troublesome thoughts, and needed the time away just as much as he suspected Crowley did. Trivial details, really. “I waited until the weekend,” he continued his explanation, “and then I came back down, and you were sleeping, so I woke you up.”

The demon nodded along with his story, processing the information as it came – he’d been asleep for five days, he inferred, and Aziraphale had been in London until just recently, and he had come back and – woken him up? “You didn’t wake me up,” Crowley said, half in a daze. “I just woke up.”

Aziraphale gave him a little bashful smile. “Yes, but you woke up because I wanted you to wake up.”

Crowley straightened his back, alert and cautious. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” the angel assured him with a shrug. “I just missed you.”

That knocked the wind out of Crowley, making his face heat up and something bubbly flood his chest. He bit his lip hard and looked away from Aziraphale before mustering up a quiet “Oh.”

Either unaware or uncaring of the effect his openness had had on the demon, Aziraphale pressed on, chipper and earnest. “It’s a beautiful day out. I thought we might head down to the beach, if you’re up for it.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” Crowley nodded. He was beginning to feel the stiffness in his joints from being asleep for the better part of a week, and he relished the idea of moving about with the sunlight on his skin. It almost outweighed the fact that it meant going into the ocean as well as being in close proximity with the angel, which had been half the reason he’d gone to sleep in the first place.

Aziraphale smiled brightly at him, and that smile powered him through all potential awkwardness and fear as he climbed out of bed. The ring the angel had given him felt heavy on his hand. He took a minute to stretch and get changed while the angel waited in the sitting room, and then they were on their way. 

It _was_ beautiful outside, sunny and warm, a light breeze and a few wisps of clouds blowing across the bright blue sky. They went out a few yards into the water, Crowley gripping Aziraphale’s forearm like a vice, taking slow steps until they were about waist-deep, and then Aziraphale gentled Crowley into standing free of support. 

“This would be easier if I were drunk,” the demon grumbled, though the anxiety in his shaky tone beat out the ire he was trying to achieve.

“You can’t swim drunk,” Aziraphale said in a voice like a patient but tired mother explaining to a toddler why they couldn’t jump off the roof. “You’re already afraid of swimming; why would you deliberately make it more dangerous?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, because he knew the angel was right but he didn’t want to say it. “Because then it’d be fun,” he whined, “and less scary.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath to maintain his ability to endure Crowley’s theatrics. He knew that Crowley was trying, that the whole endeavor was incredibly difficult and stressful for him, that he didn’t mean to be so exasperating. It was the least he could do to put some effort into not snapping at him. “I’ll tell you what,” the angel soothed, “let’s get through this first. Do some floating, maybe try and tread water for a bit. And then when we’re done, we’ll have dinner, and there will be wine aplenty. How does that sound?”

Pouting just the slightest bit, Crowley considered the offer. “Okay,” he conceded after a time. “Can we have cheesecake?”

The angel gave him an appeasing smile and nod. “Of course, dear,” he murmured. “Now, can you do this for me? Lean back, just slowly, and imagine that the surface of the water is solid.” He thought for a moment before adding, “Don’t imagine it too well, though. You can’t learn if you turn the ocean to stone.”

Following the angel’s instructions, just distracted enough with laughter that he didn’t have a thought to spare for fear, Crowley floated on his back for a while. He found that closing his eyes made it easier, so long as Aziraphale kept talking so he could be sure he was near. 

“Angel,” he ventured in a moment of deep thought, “are you keeping the water calm for me?”

“I am,” the angel admitted shamelessly. “Waves don’t make it very easy to float.”

“Can I see what happens if you let it go?”

Aziraphale chewed on the inside of his cheek, anxious on Crowley’s behalf. “Are you sure? I don’t want to give you something you can’t handle.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said, less anxious than ever. “As long as you’re here, I’ll be fine.”

Feeling grateful that the demon couldn’t see the flush that rose to his cheeks, Aziraphale released the minor miracle he’d been using to hold back the turbulence of the ocean. “Alright, there it is,” he said gently, holding his arms at the ready in case Crowley needed something to grab onto. “Remember, if you flail your limbs, you lose your balance.”

“I know,” said the demon, though his voice jumped a bit as the first small wave hit him. It was perfectly manageable, he thought, even as the salt water hit his face and he felt his whole body swaying and bouncing as if suspended in the air. It was alright. 

The waves kept coming, some larger than others, and Crowley got a noseful of brine more than once. A few times, he was unable to hold his position, and he found himself struggling, upended as though he had been pushed off the edge of a bed, sputtering and wiping his eyes before going on his back again with a mulish determination. 

He did try to tread water after a while, feeling brave and accomplished, coasting on the success of his efforts thus far. It proved more difficult than floating, which he had anticipated, but he pushed through it with Aziraphale’s help. The biggest issue for Crowley was that he couldn’t tread water with his eyes closed, and being able to see the ocean got him stuck in his head and built up his anxiety steadily over time until he was forced to plant his feet in the sand and breathe for a long minute.

Aziraphale stroked the demon’s arms with a solid, grounding touch, murmuring words of encouragement. “It’s alright,” he said, “I’m here. You’re doing wonderfully.”

“Why can’t I just _do_ this?” Crowley cried out in a moment of frustration, after several failed attempts at treading water without assistance. He blinked hard, inhaling sharply, and evened out his tone before continuing, “Why is it so easy for you?”

“Old dogs, new tricks,” the angel answered breezily. “You’re not going to get it in one afternoon, Crowley, and that’s alright. Besides,” he added with a chuckle, “muscle is more dense than water, and fat is less dense. You’re just a stringy little thing, aren’t you.”

Crowley frowned, his lower lip jutting out in a show of indignation. “M’not stringy,” he mumbled petulantly. “I’m lithe, is what I am.”

“Yes, dear, the lithest,” Aziraphale placated, then decided to change the subject. “Do you reckon you’re just about ready for dinner?”

His mood lifting just as easily as it had fallen, Crowley nodded eagerly, more than ready to reap what he perceived as the reward for all his hard work. The two made their way back up to shore, where Aziraphale summoned a pretty little picnic from his kitchen via miracle, and they ate on the beach. There was meat and cheese and a wonderful Italian bread, expensive wine in excess, and the promised cheesecake. 

It was easy again, Crowley noted with a swell of undiluted joy. It was easy to be around Aziraphale, to talk to him and eat with him, to get out of his head and enjoy their time together. He was pleasantly drunk, lying back on the warm sand, his hands behind his head and his eyes closed, listening to the angel tell a story about some nobleman he’d known in the 15th century, and it was easy.

For his part, Aziraphale was having just as good a time. He was rambling a bit, but it was alright, because Crowley was listening and making little hums of acknowledgement at all the right times. The sun was setting over the Atlantic, and it was more beautiful and more peaceful than he could ever have imagined, but he wasn’t looking at the sunset much at all. He was watching Crowley. Crowley, who was also beautiful and peaceful like this, bathed in golden light, the softest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips.

 _His lips,_ Aziraphale thought. It was a simple thought, but what it lacked in sophistication, it made up for in emphasis and repetition. Though he was fairly confident that he was still speaking, telling his story on autopilot, his mind was rather unexpectedly overflowing with that one thought, loud and persistent.

And then it seemed that his mind was suddenly empty, or perhaps gone entirely, because he leaned over without half a thought and kissed Crowley before he even knew he was doing it. It was a quick thing, a gentle, chaste press of his lips on Crowley’s, and then he pulled back entirely, separating them by feet where before there were inches.

Crowley shot up, sobering himself in a second, and looked at the angel with wild eyes, his mouth hanging open in surprise. After floundering a bit, searching for words, he managed a choked sort of yelp, shut his jaw with an audible snap, and took a deep breath to gain some composure. “Why would you do that?” he asked, trying not to shout.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said quickly. “I’m so sorry, Crowley, I –”

“Stop apologizing,” the demon interrupted, and then repeated, _“Why_ would you _do_ that?”

Aziraphale stammered a bit before finding his voice again. “I don’t know,” he answered, utterly ashamed. “I don’t know, it’s – I mean – I’m drunk. And there’s the sunset, and the beach, and the wine, and your face, and you remember the last time, and I’m drunk, and I know that’s not an excuse, but it’s – you know, it’s the truth.”

Blinking at him, Crowley stuck on one bit of the angel’s guilty rambling. “The last time?”

“Yes, you know. When we almost – you know.”

“I know,” Crowley agreed. “I just didn’t know you thought about it.”

“How could I not? It was…” Aziraphale trailed off, embarrassed.

Crowley raised his eyebrows expectantly. “It was what?”

“Nothing.”

“No, please. What was it, angel?”

The angel wrung his hands anxiously, biting his lip. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he said.

Suppressing a grin, Crowley simply replied, “Oh, now I _have_ to hear this.”

Aziraphale sighed, recognizing the demon’s mood and resigning himself to the fact that he would have to explain what he so sorely didn’t want to explain. “If you must know, it was… well, it was really very tempting,” he said miserably. “I wanted it very badly.”

“Oh,” Crowley breathed, shocked by the angel’s confession. “Huh.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence before Aziraphale asked in a small voice, “Did you – did you _not_ want it?”

“No no no, I did,” Crowley assured him.

“Alright. Good.”

“Listen –”

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

Giving the angel a look that bordered on pity, Crowley softened his tone considerably. “Do you want to, though?” He cocked his head to the side with an innocent curiosity written on his face. “Is there – I mean, do you have things to say about that?”

Aziraphale hesitated, weighing his options. “Not exactly,” he said tentatively. “I don’t mean anything by it, really. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“Not exactly,” the demon echoed, sounding pensive. “But that’s not no.”

“No,” Aziraphale replied, and then rushed to clarify, “I mean yes, it is no. The answer is no, I have no need to talk about it.”

Crowley couldn’t help a smile; it was an uncomfortable situation that could easily be either a bit silly or intensely upsetting, and he chose to view it as the former. “Okay,” he said, not wishing to push the topic any further. “That’s fine.”

After a few lame and half-hearted efforts at changing the subject, it became clear that regular conversation was off the table for the evening, so Crowley and Aziraphale amicably called it a night and returned to their respective homes to ruminate on the events of the day. Rather, they both tried their level best not to think about it at all, but it was a futile battle from the start, and rumination was inevitable.

Crowley caved first. It was only natural, considering that he was trying to go to sleep, while Aziraphale was only trying to distract himself. Unfortunately, sleep was an endeavor which was thwarted continuously by vivid thoughts of that night months ago when they had come so close to kissing, not to mention the knowledge that Aziraphale thought about it too, and the recent memory of the angel actually kissing him, and all of the confusing thoughts that came with that.

Finally, accepting that lying in bed obsessively thinking about Aziraphale was not a practical use of his time, Crowley gave up and dialed the phone.

“It’s past midnight,” the angel said by way of greeting. “What are you doing still up?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley answered lamely.

“Well, why did you call me?”

“I don’t know.”

The angel’s slow exhale did not do much in the way of calming his nerves, so he tried it two or three times for good measure before speaking again. “Are you quite alright?”

Crowley cleared his throat and repeated, “I don’t know.”

Aziraphale tried not to laugh. “Are you going to say anything?”

“I don’t –”

“If you say you don’t know, I will hang up the phone,” Aziraphale interrupted.

It took Crowley a long moment to work out what he wanted to say. “I need you to put me to sleep,” he murmured eventually.

“What do you mean?” asked the angel, his voice soft and kind.

“You brought up that thing earlier,” Crowley explained patiently. “Well. You – first you kissed me, then you brought up that thing. And now I can’t stop thinking about it, and I can’t sleep, and it’s your responsibility to fix it.”

Aziraphale blinked a few times. “How do you expect me to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, a tad exasperated. “Talk about something boring.”

“I can’t think of anything boring –”

“Doubtful.”

“– _because_ I can’t stop thinking about it, either.”

Crowley gaped, entirely thrown from his path of conversation by the unexpected information. “Oh. Well. It seems we’re in some sort of predicament.”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. “It seems so, yes.” Neither of them said anything for a minute, lost for words, until an idea occurred to the angel. “Perhaps the best way to stop thinking about it would be to… work through it, so to speak?”

Cautiously, tentatively, Crowley muttered, “Elaborate.”

“Maybe we _should_ talk about it,” Aziraphale explained. “Maybe – maybe we have to.”

“Okay,” said the demon, slow and unsure. “How do you suggest we go about that?”

“I’m not sure. Tell me what you were thinking about.”

“You don’t want to hear that,” Crowley replied quickly, his face heating up.

Aziraphale sighed, rolling his eyes. “We’re _talking_ about it, Crowley,” he said. “That means you have to _talk_ about it.”

Crowley struggled to find a good reason not to answer the angel’s question, any valid counterpoint to his tireless rationality, and came up empty-handed. “Okay. Fine. I was thinking… I really did want to do it. That night.” He paused, expecting a rebuff, but Aziraphale waited patiently for him to continue. “I chickened out, I waited too long, but I really, really wanted you. I mean,” he stopped and swallowed nervously, “I wasn’t really _thinking_ about it, so much as… fantasizing.”

“Oh?” The single syllable did little to illuminate the angel’s feelings on the matter, neutral and noncommittal as it was.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Crowley scrambled to backtrack. “I’m just trying to be honest, but that was – that was inappropriate, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s alright,” Aziraphale soothed him. “I asked about it. Tell me more.”

His breath catching in his throat, the demon let out a small whine. “I can’t, it’s awful.”

“You don’t have to, of course,” Aziraphale cooed reassuringly, “but I do want to hear it. Please, don’t hold back on my account.”

Crowley spoke slowly, carefully, certain that the angel would stop him and tell him off at any moment but unsure what else he could do or say. “I was thinking about your – your body? And your… mouth. And the way that you always smell like cinnamon and fresh rain. It’s just – I always want to be near you, is the thing, you’re so warm and – and safe.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale murmured, his tone as cryptic as ever. “That’s good to know.”

“Hey, angel?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” Crowley said fervently, sincerely. “Thanks for being a friend. I’m glad we can talk about these things.”

Aziraphale smiled softly to himself. “Me too.”

“Goodnight, Aziraphale,” mumbled the demon, on the edge of sleep now that he’d had a chance to let his thoughts run their course and gained a renewed understanding of how reliable his relationship with Aziraphale truly was.

“Goodnight, my dear,” replied the angel.

As soon as Crowley ended the phone call, Aziraphale’s attention took on a rather singular focus, centralized in his groin. He told himself it was a natural bodily reaction to the topic of their conversation, that his arousal had little to do with Crowley, because masturbating to thoughts of Crowley would be a horrible abuse of the demon’s trust and friendship. 

It was frustrating, then, that he couldn’t take care of the issue _without_ thinking of Crowley. He started out alright, clearing his mind and concentrating on the tactile sensation as he touched himself, but Crowley always found his way back into the angel’s thoughts. He’d said before that he’d wanted Aziraphale, and Aziraphale remembered overhearing Crowley telling his friends that he was attracted to the angel, and he couldn’t help but wonder.

They were friends. They were _best_ friends, and they had proven that they could handle difficult discussions and awkward situations, especially in recent months. Aziraphale thought on it extensively, against his better judgement, and concluded that it might not be so bad to explore a different aspect of their relationship.

He’d spent so long shutting things down, running away, pushing aside undesirable thoughts. Perhaps the idea had stemmed from base bodily urges, but Aziraphale was truly just tired of denying himself things he wanted. And he _did_ want Crowley. It was a shattering realization to have in the middle of the night while attempting to convince himself of the exact opposite, but it was true.

Aziraphale was always one for practicality and rationality, and it only made sense to admit it to himself. He reasoned that Crowley was the most important person in the world to him, the only constant in his life, and he had been for a very long time. And if Crowley wanted him, if Crowley was thinking about it, why shouldn’t he? They were friends, he reminded himself again. Friends could talk about things like this.

On the other hand, friends didn’t tend to _do_ things like that, not as a general rule. But Aziraphale wasn’t sure what else to call it, their odd, profound relationship; it was a bit ineffable, really. 

Somewhere along the way, Aziraphale’s burning desire faded into a low smolder, drowned out by his intense spiral of overthinking, though it didn’t go away. It was around six o’clock in the morning, the first hints of gray peeking up past the horizon, lying in his rarely-used bed and passing through his eighth cycle of the same platitudes, when a thought hit Aziraphale like a freight train.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered aloud to himself, his voice ragged from hours of disuse. “I’m in love with him.”


	7. the final breaker, heavy with brine

Crowley had a peaceful sleep, the most restful sleep he'd gotten in months. He was a bit dazed and groggy when he awoke, but the cute kind of groggy that comes with bedhead and long stretches, not the grumpy kind of groggy that comes with drool and homicidal urges.

The first thing he did upon waking was roll over and mumble "G'morning, angel," immediately followed by freezing in his tracks as he realized the angel wasn't there, and then remembered that there was no reason for him to be there. It had felt natural, inevitable even, for Aziraphale to be there in his bed, and it took a minute before the culprit behind the feeling came back to him. 

It was another blessed dream, of course, and Crowley remembered it in fits and bursts, trying to piece it together. He recalled images and sounds and touches and smells: Aziraphale's arms wrapped around him, his head resting against the angel's chest, the sure and steady rhythm of his breathing. A soft kiss placed atop his head. A gentle profession of love. 

There was nothing sexual about this dream, only warmth and tenderness and caring, and Crowley didn't know why it still made him feel like he was on fire. He told himself quite firmly, leaving no room for argument, that he wasn't disappointed that it wasn't real. He wasn't _sad_ about it.

Going about his usual morning business, Crowley decided that he was simply lonely. He dreamed of being held, being loved, because he had little contact with anyone besides Aziraphale these days, which also explained why the angel was the star of the dream. It didn't mean anything.

Since he had his phone out anyway, checking his social media for updates from while he was sleeping, he reasoned that it couldn't hurt to see what was happening on the dating apps. It might not have been the best coping mechanism, not when he could easily have reached out to one of his many friends; Anathema had been worried about him lately, and he might have talked to her, but for some reason it didn't feel the same. She would want to talk about what was wrong, as would any of his other friends. Going on a date was not ideal, but it would take his mind off Aziraphale, at the very least.

The problem was, Crowley knew he was never going to marry one of the guys from this app. He knew it would be silly to hope for eternal love or any kind of permanence from an app, or from a human; he was immortal, after all, and they were not. But he could find someone to keep him company.

He swiped through a myriad of unremarkable men, keeping his mind open and his standards low, while brushing his teeth, making his coffee, picking his outfit. There were several matches, none interesting enough to compel him to message first, and only one who took the initiative himself.

"Hello, Theodore," Crowley muttered to himself as he read through the man's profile again. He appeared to be in his 50s, had a thick beard and kind eyes, and made it very clear that he was looking for a relationship or new friends, not cheap hookups. Crowley was a lot of things, but he certainly wasn't cheap.

Not particularly caring whether he came off as desperate or pathetic, Crowley asked Theodore if he wanted to meet up that day; to his surprise, the man accepted, and they planned a time and place. All in all, Crowley thought it was a good day, and it was still well before noon.

He killed time for a bit longer, sending his friends screenshots of Theodore's profile to see what they thought. The verdict was a resounding "get it" from the group chat, which was a tad embarrassing and a lot amusing. Crowley was still getting used to having friends who encouraged him to go on dates and have fun, and also still getting used to the concept of group chats, but he enjoyed it, generally speaking.

Sometime in the early afternoon, Aziraphale dropped by. Crowley had forgotten that they had lunch plans, but it was alright, it didn't cause a time conflict so long as they didn’t get too carried away. They went to a nice little pizzeria, and Crowley was anxious enough for his date that he didn't notice how strangely Aziraphale was acting. 

The angel was jittery and absent, repeating himself constantly and not understanding a word Crowley said. Until it came time to leave, and he stopped in his tracks to turn toward the demon and spoke to him in a stilted, formal voice.

"Would you care for a drink?" he asked, which was not abnormal but for his tone. "I've something I wish to speak with you about."

Crowley blew a breath out through his teeth, checking his watch. “Would that I could, angel,” he said apologetically, “but I’ve got plans tonight, and I have to get ready.”

“Plans?” Aziraphale asked, voice strained. “What sort of plans?”

“Got a date,” Crowley replied easily, oblivious to the angel’s distress. 

“Oh. Alright.” Aziraphale’s face fell, and he turned and walked ahead of Crowley out of the restaurant so the demon wouldn’t see. 

By the time they reached the Bentley, Aziraphale had schooled his expression into something approximating normality, clenching his jaw tightly in a determined effort not to show his disappointment. He couldn’t say anything, couldn’t even look directly at the demon without wanting to cry, so he spent the car ride in silence while Crowley hummed along to whatever song was on the radio. When Crowley dropped him off at his front door, Aziraphale climbed out of the car at lightning speed, barely taking a second to say goodbye before he disappeared inside his house.

Thinking on it once he was alone, it took only a few minutes before Aziraphale felt bad enough about his conduct to send Crowley a text message to clear things up. After all, he reminded himself, Crowley didn’t know what he knew, and had no reason to think anything was different than the previous day. They had left things on good and explicitly platonic terms.

> _Crowley, I just wanted to say I hope you have fun on your date tonight. Let me know how it goes, yes?_

Crowley read the message and smiled to himself, typing and sending a quick response on his way out the door. It was good to have Aziraphale’s support. He hadn’t been particularly nervous for the date, but he still felt better knowing that Aziraphale was behind him and wishing him luck.

Well, not luck. Not in the sense that people tend to get lucky on dates. Just in the sense that he wanted Crowley to have a good time. But not necessarily that good a time. 

Crowley thought himself in circles on that point for the entirety of his drive to meet Theodore. He forced himself to focus as he parked the Bentley and walked into the cafe – one of the corporate places, not really to his tastes, but he had gone along with the man’s suggestion because he wanted to be reasonable and laid-back.

Theodore was sitting at a table by the window and he stood and waved as Crowley walked in the door. Crowley smiled, met him at the table, asked what he wanted to drink, went up to the counter to get both their coffees. He wasn’t a wooer, by any means, but it only made sense to him that he should pay for the date, considering that the concept of money bent to his whim.

They sat and talked for a bit; it wasn’t life-changing, but it was as good a way as any to spend an afternoon, Crowley thought. He was a nice man, and he didn’t judge or point out how terribly inhuman Crowley’s answers were when he asked about his life.

“What do you do for a living?” Theodore asked, just a few minutes into the date.

“Not much,” was Crowley’s answer.

“Did you go to school?” Theodore asked.

“A few times, yeah,” Crowley said.

And it went on in that manner for a while. Crowley found out that Theodore was a widower; his wife had passed away five years ago, they hadn’t had any children, and he was just starting to exit his grieving period and trying to meet new people. There was no pressure for their coffee date to turn into anything else, and that made it easy to talk to him.

“Have you tried every one?” Theodore asked with a nod toward Crowley’s cup, his second drink, a different fancy flavor than the first.

“Not all of them, no,” Crowley said after setting the cup down. “We usually go for smaller places, locally owned and such, so I’m trying to get the full experience while I’m here.”

The man raised an eyebrow at that. “We?”

“Oh. Sorry,” mumbled the demon, embarrassed. “Me and my friend – my best friend. I don’t want it to sound like we do everything together.”

“That’s nice,” Theodore assured him sincerely. “It’s good to have someone like that.”

“Yeah, it is.” Crowley smiled, his chest squeezing at the thought of Aziraphale, how thankful he was to have the angel in his life. “But anyway,” he continued, blinking thoughts of Aziraphale away as if surfacing from a dream, “the drinks are delicious.”

Theodore responded with a low chuckle, eyeing the drink in front of Crowley. “I don’t know. I like a simple cup of coffee, myself.”

“A simple cup of coffee certainly has its merits,” Crowley conceded diplomatically. “I wouldn’t dream of turning down a good cup of coffee, don’t get me wrong. I just figure since I’m here, you know? They can make the fancy ones here, and I can make the simple coffee at home.”

“That’s perfectly reasonable,” Theodore agreed. 

Crowley let out a breath of a laugh, shaking his head, and the man looked at him curiously. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just. That sounds just like something Aziraphale would say.”

“Does it?” Theodore offered a warm smile. “And that’s the best friend, I presume?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” Crowley nodded. “He likes the plain coffees, too.”

“He sounds like a good sort,” said Theodore.

“He is,” Crowley beamed.

Theodore gave a slow nod, a thoughtful hum, a knowing smile. “Listen, Anthony,” he said, quiet and kind, “do you want to be here right now?”

“Do I – what? Yes, of course.”

“Do you really, though? Because it’s fairly clear to me that you’d rather be with him.” Theodore put a hand up to stem Crowley’s reflexive protests. “And that’s okay, really, it is. I wouldn’t want to keep you from someone you love.”

Crowley choked on air for a moment. “It’s not like that,” he said with great effort. “We’re friends.”

“Anyone you love should be your friend first,” the man replied sagely. “All I know is when you talk about him, your whole being lights up. You look and sound like how I used to feel when I thought of my wife. You can’t deny a love like that.”

And just like that, Crowley felt his chest open up and flood with warmth. He didn’t understand it, not at all, how a regular middle-aged human man was able to see right through every wall he’d built around himself and his heart, to cut right to the core of him within an hour of meeting him, to lay bare the deepest truths that even Crowley couldn’t see inside himself. But it had happened, just like that, and now he couldn’t imagine anything else.

“Bless, alright then,” mumbled the demon.

Theodore pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. “Did you… did you not know? I’m sorry, I thought you knew. 

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Well, I never. I thought you were just denying it outwardly. That’s some industrial-grade denial, if you didn’t even know it yourself.”

“What am I supposed to do with that?” Crowley practically wailed. “I don’t know how – I don’t know how to do this!”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Theodore soothed, covering Crowley’s hand with his own. “I think we’re friends now, yes?” He waited for a meek nod from the demon before continuing, “So I’ll help you.”

Crowley raised his free hand to his face, rubbing aggressively at his eye, dragging his fingers down his cheek. “You don’t have to – gosh, I’m sorry. You don’t need this, you just wanted a normal date, I’m sorry.”

Rolling his eyes, Theodore scoffed gently. “You apologize too much. Tell you what. Go home, alright? Go home and… do some thinking. That’s step one.”

Crowley sniffed. “And then what?”

“You’ve got my number,” Theodore said, “and I’m here to help. So think about what you want, and I’ll help you however I can.”

“You don’t need to – to make me a project, you know. You could cut loose.”

“I want you to be happy,” insisted the man, smiling like he’d known Crowley for millennia. “We’ve got a lot in common, you and me. I’m not going to leave you hanging when I could do something to help you be as happy as my wife and I were. Everyone deserves that happiness.”

Crowley blinked a few times, bidding the hot tears in his eyes not to fall. Crying didn’t go with the image he had, so he didn’t allow it, and certainly not in public. He was almost entirely lost as far as their conversation went, but Crowley was positive that Theodore was right about at least one thing: he needed to do some thinking.

“Okay,” he said eventually, standing to leave. “Okay. Thank you, really.”

“You’re absolutely welcome,” Theodore replied. “Let me know when you get home, alright? So I know you’re safe.”

“Okay,” Crowley repeated with a wobbly smile, and then he was gone.

He spent the car ride thinking very hard, and arrived back home with no clarity whatsoever. He sent Theodore a text to say he’d gotten home safely, sent Aziraphale a text to say his date had gone well, and then locked himself in his room to keep thinking for as long as it took.


	8. plains raised above waves

Aziraphale was in London more often than not, these days. He found, much to his dismay, that it was the only way to mitigate the festering, gaping wound in his chest that deepened every time he talked to Crowley. 

He couldn't be upset with Crowley, not even a little bit, and that just made the whole thing harder. Because it wasn't Crowley's fault that it had taken him six thousand years to realize he was in love with the demon, and it wasn't Crowley's fault that he'd found someone else right when Aziraphale was ready to do something about it. It was just bad timing. Really, truly horrible timing.

But Crowley seemed happy. That was what mattered. And Aziraphale tried his very best not to hate Theodore, no matter how much he wanted to.

It had started with one text:

> _hey angel, date was good. might be out of reach for a bit. don't worry x_

Seeing as he was less than 24 hours out from the shocking discovery that he was in love with Crowley, Aziraphale had a hard time not letting his imagination run wild with that text. Had Crowley been swept off his feet and whisked off to an island somewhere? Was he preparing for some sort of sex marathon? Whatever it was, Aziraphale was sure it didn't bode well for him.

And then Crowley had started talking about _Theodore._ It wasn't excessive or obnoxious, but it broke Aziraphale's heart. He sounded like a nice enough man, and Crowley wasn’t – well, he wasn’t uncouth about it. He wasn’t gushing about how beautiful and romantic his new beau was, wasn’t giving Aziraphale all the dirty details or anything, but he would just mention him every once in a while. _Theodore told me, Theodore said, Theodore would love that,_ blah blah blah.

Shamefully, he tried to look the man up once. He'd whispered the request to Emily, who had responded with a blank screen for a very long time before flashing a message about privacy, the dictionary definition of jealousy, and the legal definition of stalking. Aziraphale cursed himself internally for giving the computer his sense of morality, but he knew she was right.

To the demon's credit, whenever Aziraphale was down at his cottage, Crowley spent time with him. He didn’t blow the angel off for Theodore, not even once, and Aziraphale appreciated that. It made him feel warm inside to know that Crowley prioritized him, even if it wasn’t in exactly the way he wished.

They still went swimming, when they felt like it, when they could both stomach the emotional workout that came with the inevitable anxiety and nearly inevitable arguing. They still had lunch, or breakfast, or coffee, or drinks. Crowley was happy. Aziraphale was happy that he was happy. 

It really was rather convenient, actually. That was what Aziraphale told himself when things got really bleak inside his head – it was good that Crowley had someone to talk to, someone who shared his interests, rather than just sharing everything with Aziraphale while the angel listened but couldn’t truly relate. It was a good thing. He was happy that Crowley was happy. He said it many times, so it must have been true.

The Bentley was shinier than usual. Aziraphale asked about it, out of polite curiosity more than anything else, and Crowley lit up like a child.

“Theodore turned me onto a new wax,” he beamed. “I’m so glad you noticed, I’ve been wondering if it was visibly prettier or if it was just me.”

“It’s definitely prettier,” murmured Aziraphale, whose brain had stopped working somewhere around _Theodore turned me on._

Crowley smiled even brighter, and then he actually wiggled in his seat. Aziraphale’s chest hurt from how much the motion endeared him to the demon. Then Crowley was talking about the car wax and how economical it was and how effective it was and Aziraphale was completely lost and completely enraptured.

“You’ve never really cared much for thrift,” the angel pointed out.

“I know,” Crowley nodded, “but it’s like – it’s very cheap, is all. Anyhow, you know in _The Karate Kid…”_

* * *

Crowley had called Theodore about three days after their first date – their only date, if it could even be called a date – only to declare, in the sort of tone that implied it was Theodore’s fault: “I’m in love with my best friend!” 

Theodore, being a kind and understanding man, had simply said, “I know.”

“Well, what do I do?” Crowley had asked.

And thus had begun a wonderful friendship. They started with Aziraphale as a central issue, Theodore offering advice and moral support while Crowley tried to work through his own issues, but they soon found out they had a lot in common. Theodore was a fan of cars, had two vintage beauties of his own that he kept in tip-top shape. He also had a flourishing garden, mostly filled with vegetables, and a few house plants which he treated as if they were his own children.

They really hit it off, to say the least. 

When Aziraphale was in London, Crowley spent a lot of time with Theodore. He saw his other friends as well, and he let them in on his dilemma, but they did less in the way of helping and more in the way of mocking. Crowley didn’t mind, mostly because they were a hilarious bunch and their barbs at his obliviousness were witty and clever, rather than your standard name-calling and the like.

When Crowley had first told Holly and Jasmine, they had responded with an extended bit about all the other obvious things that Crowley recently found out. “Did Theodore also introduce you to gravity?” Holly asked, and Jasmine added, “Did Theodore open your eyes to electricity? Or did he just give you a suggestion, and then you came up with electricity all by yourself?”

Peter had replied with a series of emojis that Crowley didn’t entirely understand, but he was sure they were rather rude. He quickly took it upon himself to ask Peter to ask Eliza to not say anything to Aziraphale; two minutes later, he got a message from Eliza feigning that she had accidentally let it slip already, detailing the hypothetical conversation with Aziraphale about Crowley’s feelings for him. Crowley laughed until his stomach hurt.

Selma’s response was a very dry, “I genuinely thought you two were already married.”

They all brought him alcohol at their earliest convenience. Which was good, because normally Aziraphale would be the one doing that, but this was one time Crowley couldn't ask for the angel's help.

He tried his best, but he found it difficult to be around Aziraphale. Every second that they spent together, Crowley was either physically restraining himself from kissing Aziraphale, or else he was internally beating himself up for having taken so long to recognize his feelings. 

Because now that he knew, it was impossible to believe there was ever a time when he didn't know. It was impossible for him to recall a time when seeing Aziraphale's face didn't make his heart stop. It was impossible for him to imagine a time when he wasn't completely, madly, deeply in love with the angel.

He was especially ashamed of his ignorance on the subject after he had told all of his friends that he was attracted to Aziraphale, and after he had dreamt of tasting every inch of Aziraphale's skin, and after he had dreamt of being held and kissed and loved by Aziraphale. There was simply no excuse for such astounding levels of idiocy. 

Crowley dwelled on how stupid he had been because it was easier than thinking about what to do next. Everybody unanimously agreed that he had to tell Aziraphale how he felt, but they didn't know him like Crowley knew him. They didn't know, for starters, that Aziraphale was an angel and Crowley was a demon and they had been friends for six thousand years. Crowley thought that might affect their opinions on the matter.

He tried to reach out to older friends, friends from London, even some who knew what he and Aziraphale were, but nobody had anything useful to say. Anathema was the most sensible person Crowley knew, and she had settled for a man because a book of prophecies told her to, only to amicably divorce two months later, so relationship advice wasn't really her forte. Her response to Crowley's frantic text about his feelings was rational and self-aware.

> _I've never been in anything close to your situation, man. if you want moral support I got you. maybe ask Newt for advice, I'm sure he's had lots of unrequited crushes._

He considered asking Newt, because he figured that his fears of inadequacy and rejection would be more relatable to him than they were to Anathema, but then he reasoned that Newt's aspirational relationship had been accidental and short-lived, and any romantic escapades before that clearly hadn't stuck. The best Newt could offer was commiseration, and even that would be half-hearted, because Newt's feelings for anyone could never have held a candle to the way Crowley felt about Aziraphale.

A similar problem arose with Madame Tracy, who had no experience romancing anyone who wasn't a terrible old man. Granted, Aziraphale was also a terrible old man, but in an entirely different manner than Shadwell, so Tracy's advice would be useless as well. And Shadwell – well, Crowley just didn't want to talk to him. 

So it was just Theodore, really, and that was okay. He was smart and grounding and he told Crowley when he was being ridiculous. His late wife had been a character like Aziraphale, so he understood a lot of Crowley's plight. And he was kind. Crowley needed kindness.

More than anything, he was afraid. He couldn't fathom life without Aziraphale, and he didn't want to risk ruining their friendship with a dramatic confession of love that turned out to be unrequited. What could he do if Aziraphale didn't love him back? He couldn't even look forward to a peaceful death. It would just be awkward for all of eternity.

They met up at least once a week to talk through Crowley's feelings, to the point where he briefly considered the idea of paying Theodore a therapist's hourly fee. But their friendship was more than just Crowley whining and Theodore listening; they connected, genuinely, and Crowley felt a little warm glow in his chest whenever he could make Theodore laugh.

They were out for coffee one day, had just shifted their topic of conversation from 80s films to 90s music, when Aziraphale came upon them.

Catching Crowley's voice from across the room, Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he called out to grab the demon's attention as he approached the table where they were seated. "Crowley!"

Crowley whipped his head around, his jaw hanging open and his face rapidly heating up. “Angel, hi,” he replied, blinking up at him and then looking back to Theodore, as if to make certain that he wasn’t the only one who could see the angel. “Fancy seeing you here.”

"Yes, quite," said Aziraphale, who was beginning to feel the embarrassment set in for how earnestly excited he had been to see the demon. "I was just going to try those scones you recommended."

"Oh, they're _fantastic,"_ Crowley assured him with a bright smile. "You'll love them."

Aziraphale smiled back at him, shining eyes locked on his face in a manner altogether too intense for the context. After a long moment of getting lost staring at Crowley, the angel came back to reality with a vigorous shake of his head.

"My goodness, but where are my manners?" He attempted to affect a tone of friendly curiosity, gestured idly toward Theodore without turning to look at him. "Shall I introduce myself?"

"No, no, I'm sorry, I should do that," Crowley said quickly. "Aziraphale, this is my friend Theodore. Theodore, Aziraphale."

Theodore grinned and extended a hand to the angel. "Pleased to meet you, Aziraphale. I've heard so _very_ much about you."

Shaking the man's hand, Aziraphale squeezed a bit too hard and tried not to sneer. "Likewise, dear fellow."

"Would you like to join us?" Theodore asked the angel, ignoring the light kick to his shin from the demon.

"I wouldn't want to impose…"

"Nonsense, we would love to have you."

Both Theodore and Aziraphale looked to Crowley for his opinion on the matter, waiting expectantly. Crowley was suddenly rather anxious, for reasons he couldn't quite explain. 

"I – I mean –," he stammered, "I wouldn't – we could… you're definitely – I mean."

Aziraphale pressed his lips tight together and gave a resigned nod, a small hum of understanding. "I understand, you would rather be left alone. I'll be on my way."

Raising a hand as if to halt the angel’s departure, Crowley wracked his brain for something to say. All he knew was that he didn’t want Aziraphale to leave; not ever, because he simply longed to be near the angel always, but especially not like this, not thinking that he was unwanted or unwelcome.

The trouble was that he couldn’t find the words to make him stay. He got as far as, “Wait, angel,” and then he was floundering with his mouth open, as if the right words might land on his tongue from the air.

It was at least a bit effective, because Aziraphale turned back to face the demon expectantly. “Yes, Crowley?”

“You don’t have to go,” Crowley said lamely, shooting a desperate, helpless look at Theodore, who merely nodded in support, then looking back up at the angel.

An icy smile spread on Aziraphale’s face, not reaching so far as his cheeks, much less his eyes. If Crowley didn’t know him, he would have said it made him look almost sinister, but the demon recognized it as the passive aggressive expression he gave when he was being polite in the bitchiest manner possible. “That’s quite alright,” said the angel in a wooden tone. “I’m sure you’ve got things to do, and I wouldn’t want to be a tricycle.”

Crowley pulled up short. “A tricycle? What’s – do you mean a third wheel?”

Aziraphale’s face darkened immediately with a furious blush, and he set his jaw to maintain his cold expression despite his embarrassment. He heard Theodore say something softly to Crowley, something he couldn’t quite make out through the blood pounding in his ears. Whatever it was, it made Crowley laugh while Aziraphale was standing there humiliated, so he cut his losses and stormed off.

“Oh, shit,” the demon muttered under his breath as he watched his friend leave. “He didn’t like that,” he added, turning back to Theodore.

“I’m sorry, old boy,” the man said sincerely. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I hope you know that.”

“No, no, I know. He wouldn’t have liked anything, to be honest.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly and blowing a breath out slowly. He stared wistfully toward the door Aziraphale had run out. “I shouldn’t have laughed. It’s just, you know, he can be a bit ridiculous sometimes. Funny picture, imagining him on a tricycle.”

Theodore frowned, his brows drawing together. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I feel I may have hurt his feelings.”

With a shake of his head, the demon assured him, “It’s fine. It was me. It’s always me.”

There was a long, painful silence, Theodore watching Crowley while Crowley chewed on his lip and stared at the table and hated himself. The demon couldn't see Theodore's face, so he didn't see the man's process of deep contemplation, his fond gaze, or the moment when he reached a conclusion. “You should go after him,” Theodore said eventually, his voice warm and gentle and kind. “You should tell him the truth.”

The demon balked at the suggestion. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” The man looked very seriously at Crowley, daring him to find a reason where he knew there wasn’t one. “What are you waiting for? It's been long enough. You're not going to get more ready by running away from it. He’s upset. He’s harboring some grave misconceptions. Go to him, and tell him the truth.”

“I…” Crowley felt like his lungs were being compressed. He was afraid, but Theodore was right. How long could he wait, really? How long could he keep up the precarious and volatile situation between the angel and himself, and why should he, when he held the power to resolve it one way or the other? “I…” he repeated, choking on his tongue, “I… I have to go.”

“I know,” Theodore nodded, offering the demon a warm and understanding smile, shooing him off with one hand. 

Crowley hesitated for only one more moment, looking back at the man, and uttered a fervent, passionate “Thank you,” before practically running out the door.


	9. only a salt kiss remains

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to do, knowing that nothing could realistically make his situation better, but it helped just being away from the immediate upsetting factor of Crowley and Theodore laughing at him together. He felt his throat tighten, his stomach fill with hot, raw emotion – anger, sadness, heartbreak, loneliness, he couldn’t name it or categorize it, but he knew it was bad. It felt bad.

By the time he got back to his house, the cottage, the only thing he could think to do was go for a swim. He didn’t bother to waste time, changed into his swimsuit with half a thought as he walked right past the cottage and straight down to the beach.

The water was cold, a bit too cold for it to be strictly comfortable, but Aziraphale used a miracle to make it bearable and walked out as far as he could go before he could no longer reach the bottom. He was a good distance from the shore. He didn’t want to do anything, really, but standing there with his toes digging into mucky sand, the water pressing in all around him, he took a while to breathe.

The angel’s meditation was interrupted after around half an hour when he heard his name, called faintly from the shore. He turned to see the distant figure of Crowley, unmistakable even though he was hardly visible.

He tried to ignore the demon at first, but the shouting continued. His name a few more times, and then other words, incomprehensible at the distance but very insistent.

Eventually, Aziraphale gave into his mounting annoyance and yelled, “I cannot bloody hear you!”

The demon gave a frustrated groan and a flail of his arms, paced a few steps back and forth on the beach as if deliberating on a difficult decision, and ran into the water. Fully dressed, at full speed, and as soon as he was knee-deep, he dove in and started swimming. 

It was less than a minute before Crowley reached the angel, emerged from under the water with dripping hair and chattering teeth. “Aziraphale,” he gasped between deep gulps of air, “please.”

“What, Crowley?” Aziraphale was shouting, but he didn’t care. “What?”

“You’re impossible to find,” the demon croaked breathlessly. “I called you –”

“I didn’t bring my mobile into the ocean with me, sorry,” Aziraphale snapped.

Crowley took a few more heaving inhales, wiping saltwater out of his eyes with his hands, which were also dripping with saltwater. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair,” he nodded apologetically. “I had to sniff you out. Do you know how hard it is to smell an angel with the stench of the ocean in the way?”

Gritting his teeth, Aziraphale felt his patience wearing very, very thin. “Yes, Crowley, believe it or not. Have you considered the possibility that I didn’t want you to come after me?”

Shame flooding his entire being, the demon nodded again. “Yeah, I know,” he muttered, a bit hoarse. “I’m sorry, but I need to talk to you.”

“Do you? Do you _need_ to?”

“Yeah, angel, I do. It’s important.”

“Perhaps it’s important to _me_ to be left alone.”

Crowley groaned, bit his lip. He’d wanted to do this right, or as right as he could given the circumstance, but he hadn’t counted on the angel’s unrelenting pride and his ability to stay angry in spite of everything. Then again, Crowley hadn’t yet given him much reason to listen. He was frantic, could hardly think straight, much less present a compelling argument.

“I just,” he began, almost defeated. “I just want –”

As the demon considered his dilemma, Aziraphale grew more and more impatient. “Want what, Crowley?”

“I want –”

“You want to humiliate me some more, is that it?”

“No, I just –”

“Want to tell me how gloriously happy you are? How wonderful your life is?”

“For fuck’s sake, angel, will you let me tell you I love you, before I get hypothermic?”

Aziraphale froze completely; he was sure his blood stopped pumping, his heart stopped beating, his lungs stopped breathing. He didn’t blink, didn’t twitch, didn’t even think for a very, very long time. Crowley provided a stark contrast, shaking and gasping and teetering over the precipice of tears, but he didn’t say anything, either, simply waited in fearful anticipation of what the angel would say, what he would do.

Finally, finally, Aziraphale’s face lit up as though he was springing back to life from a period of inanimation. “Oh my God, Crowley,” he whispered wonderingly, awestruck, almost ecstatic. “Crowley, you swam! You swam out here!”

Crowley’s breath caught, and he hesitated in consternation. “Er, yeah,” he said, slow and careful, “and also the other thing, you know, the thing I just told you.”

“My dear boy, we must get you inside,” the angel said, his demeanor shifted entirely on its head, now looking at and speaking to Crowley as if he were a delicate thing, an easily startled animal or a sickly child, with deep concern and a palpable compassion. He encircled the demon’s wrist with his fingers, wrapped his other arm around Crowley’s shoulder, and walked him back toward the shore.

Overwhelmed, exhausted, freezing, Crowley allowed himself to be pulled along by the gentle guidance of the angel’s hands. He walked alongside Aziraphale with stilted movements, brainlessly, on cruise control. They went to the angel’s house, which Crowley didn’t think to protest, and Aziraphale sat him down with a towel and began asking him questions.

“Do you want me to draw a bath? Would you prefer to just get into some dry clothes and sit in front of the fire? I’ll put a kettle on. Are you hungry?”

Crowley shook his head with a slow, jerky movement, frowning at the floor. “Nuh,” he mumbled. “J’ssst – clothes, yeah. Mine’re… at my houssse,” he finished vaguely.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got some you can borrow,” the angel soothed him with soft assurance. “If that’s alright, I mean?”

“Course it’s alright,” Crowley replied, nodding.

Aziraphale let out a deep breath and smiled with relief, then patted Crowley’s hand and stood. “Be right back,” he said quietly, turning and heading down the hall.

He returned a minute later with a towel and a small pile of clothing: a pair of dark grey joggers, a blue chunky knit sweater, some outrageously fuzzy socks, and a pair of white boxer briefs that looked like they had never been touched before, much less worn. Crowley took the clothes with a grateful nod, his mind too wrung out even to be judgmental.

“You can change in here while I get a fire going,” Aziraphale murmured, and then gestured sheepishly to the sweatpants. “Sorry about the loungewear, but, erm. I only own one pair of trousers that tightens with a drawstring, and you’ll need it to keep them from falling down.”

Crowley laughed on a quiet breath and muttered an even quieter “Thanks.” He was not too exhausted to feel the warmth of the angel’s returning smile, so kind and caring that it made Crowley’s chest hurt, and he was not too exhausted to feel a slight pang when Aziraphale left the room.

He made short work of changing into the warm, dry clothes the angel had brought him, toweling his hair off and then using a bit of miracle to finish the job. He noted with a palpable, overwhelming sense of relief that he was still wearing his ring; he would have been alright with losing any of his clothes, his sunglasses, his phone, but losing the ring would have devastated him. As it stood, his phone was broken but not too far gone to fix with a miracle, so he shoved it into the pocket of his pants and looked down to assess himself. The outfit was big on him, but soft and comfortable, and a distant voice in his head told him it was rather chic, in a cozy sort of way, and he probably looked cute, not that it particularly mattered at the moment. Still, he checked his reflection in the glass of a picture frame before going to the sitting room.

Aziraphale lit up at the sight of him, gesturing to a cushion in front of the fire, which was roaring already, no doubt thanks to a miracle. Crowley sat on the cushion and crossed his legs, feeling a bit awkward, and then the angel draped a thick blanket over his shoulders and settled onto a similar cushion in front of him. Reaching into thin air, he grabbed two cups of tea and handed one to Crowley.

“Thanks,” whispered the demon. He took a sip of the tea and savored the way it filled his body with warmth for a long moment before setting the cup down on the stone hearth. He inhaled deeply, staring at the cup as he steeled himself to ask about the painful elephant in the room, to once again bring up his frenzied confession, to hear Aziraphale’s inevitable rejection. “So, angel –”

“Are you feeling alright?” Aziraphale cut in, in the manner of beginning a conversation, as if Crowley hadn’t spoken.

The demon looked up at him with slight surprise, noting that the angel had also put his tea aside, and nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, promise. I’m really fine. Wh–”

And then he was cut off again, this time by Aziraphale’s lips crashing into his own with a force that nearly knocked him back on the floor. The angel’s hands flew to Crowley’s face, pressing in against his cheeks, his palms like brands burning the demon’s skin, for only a short time before migrating, exploring Crowley, studying him. He rubbed his thumbs along high, sharp cheekbones, smoothed his fingers down the sides of a slender neck, traced the line of a pronounced collarbone, wrapped a hand around the back of Crowley’s head and pulled him in, in, in.

Crowley wasn’t breathing, and he didn’t respond so much with touches of his own, caught off guard as he was. He did, however, close his eyes and slump his shoulders, relaxing his posture in service of getting closer to the angel, leaning into the kiss with everything left in him. Aziraphale’s mouth moved against his, the slide of soft lips and the taste of salt and tea and the desperate hunger of his desire.

The angel broke the kiss after a length of time that may have been ten seconds or a thousand years, pulled back just by a hair’s breadth, just enough to whisper, “Please don’t leave.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped open, he moved back to see the angel’s face and felt a strangled, hysterical noise claw its way out of his throat unbidden. It wasn’t quite a laugh, not nearly a shout, simply a sound of utter disbelief. “Why in the world would I leave?”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said in lieu of a proper answer. “That was selfish, it was awful of me, I just – I only wanted to do it once, before you say it.”

“Before I say what?” The demon was baffled, completely lost, and he found himself thinking that he wished they were still kissing. 

Aziraphale’s face crumpled into a look of profound despair. “Before,” he began, but his voice cracked, so he tried again. “Before you tell me that you didn’t mean it.”

Staring blankly at the angel, Crowley took a long moment to catch up to what he was talking about, and then he scoffed loudly. “I meant it,” he declared passionately. “Angel, I meant it.”

“But how? How could you have meant it?” Aziraphale didn’t seem hurt or accusing, but very, very sure of himself. It was clear that he was absolutely convinced that Crowley’s confession had been a fluke. “You can’t love _me.”_

The angel’s small, sad voice made something fall into place, and it clicked for Crowley that after all of that, Aziraphale still believed he was in a long-term relationship with Theodore. There was no real insecurity behind his vehement denial, only a need to reconcile more recent events with what he thought he knew. It was almost laughable – almost, but not quite enough to actually make Crowley laugh, thankfully.

“Aziraphale,” he said, all patience and tenderness, taking both of the angel’s hands gingerly in his own. “Aziraphale, I love you. I can’t blame you for not believing it, I suppose, because I had trouble believing it myself, but it’s the truth. And honestly, I think we’ve both been a bit thick, not to have noticed it for so long.” A glint of something hopeful flashed across Aziraphale’s face, and something else dawned on Crowley. “Wait, you’re not – I mean, you don’t – do you love me?”

“Yes, yes, of course I love you,” the angel said in a rush, “but what about–?”

“I was never dating Theodore,” Crowley admitted, though he’d thought it should be a bit obvious by that point. “He’s my friend. And he was, well. He was helping me deal with the You situation.”

“The… the Me situation?”

“Yeah, you know. The issue where I was in love with my best friend, who I thought could never love me back.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

They sat in silence for a short minute, processing the new information and reliving the previous months in a new light, steadily growing more ashamed of their own stupidity. Then Crowley spoke again, if only to get himself out of his thoughts, which threatened to suffocate him.

He cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brow, looking at the angel curiously. “You really thought I didn’t mean it? After I jumped in the ocean for you?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks heated up, though it was unclear whether it was from embarrassment or from the reminder of the demon’s courageous gesture. Rather than answering the question directly, he gave his approximation of the same look and asked, “You really thought I didn’t feel the same? After I kissed you?”

“Fair enough,” Crowley conceded. “So. What do we do now?”

“Not sure,” admitted the angel. “Never done this before.”

Blushing furiously, putting far too much energy into regulating his breathing, the demon cleared his throat. “Me neither. Erm. I did rather enjoy the kissing.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, nodding with an air of pragmatism that was strange under the circumstances, but very apt for the angel. “Let’s do more of that, then.”


	10. in the space of your crystal completeness

“You know,” Crowley tossed out casually, though the tone was somewhat undercut by the flush in his cheeks and his labored breathing, “I had a dream about you a bit back.”

Aziraphale feigned a polite interest as he ran his fingers through the demon’s hair. “Oh? Care to elaborate?”

“Well, it was a lot like this, actually.” Crowley gestured at the way they were stretched out on the sofa, the angel underneath him, their faces only centimeters apart. “Except, er, this wasn’t here,” he continued idly, tugging at the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt. “So it was much easier for me to do this,” he concluded, demonstrating his point promptly and thoroughly with a series of messy kisses to the angel’s throat which culminated in the demon insistently sucking a mark into his skin.

The angel followed Crowley’s movements and words with rapt attention, gasping softly at the press of his lips, giggling brightly at the hot, wet pressure of his mouth. “That sounds like a fine dream,” he said, breathless and giddy. “In fact, it may be even better in reality.”

“I have to agree with that assessment,” Crowley replied in a businesslike manner. 

“Why don’t we take this to the bedroom,” Aziraphale murmured hotly, tilting his head to place his lips close to the demon’s ear, “and make more than one dream come true?”

Fanning himself dramatically, Crowley affected a scandalized tone. “Aziraphale! Do you mean to sully my virtue?”

“Which virtue is that, then?”

“My honor!”

“What honor is that, dearest?”

“My _chastity,_ angel, my sacred flower, my –”

“How about this,” Aziraphale interrupted, sounding bored. He sat up, shifting the demon gently to the side, and stood to leave. _“I_ will head to the bedroom, and _you_ can join me whenever you’ve worn out your schtick.”

Crowley broke his character and grinned wolfishly. “Then I can get started on wearing out _your_ schti–”

Gently pressing his index finger to the demon’s mouth, Aziraphale gave him a sweet smile. “Finish that sentence if, and _only_ if, you would like to be locked out of the bedroom for the foreseeable future.”

“Can’t have that,” muttered the demon, losing all his mischievous bravado and following Aziraphale down the hall to – _“The Promised Land,”_ he announced at first sight of the angel’s huge, plush bed, followed immediately by throwing himself on it with a deep sigh.

Aziraphale tutted. “Really, my dear, must you?”

Pushing himself up and facing the angel from his seat on the bed, Crowley paused. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing so aggressively that even when he lowered them again, he only saw static for a few seconds. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbled tiredly. “It’s – I’m a bit overwhelmed, is all, and I’m coping with humor. Uncalled for. Not great.”

In a heartbeat, Aziraphale was in the bed with him, sitting in front of him and giving him that pitying look again. “Crowley, if this is too much, you can tell me,” he said softly, his eyes wide and sad. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I want to,” Crowley rushed to say, fervent and desperate. “Fucking Hell, angel, do I ever want to. Just… it’s all a bit fast. Not _too_ fast, but fast, you know? I haven’t even texted Theodore to tell him that everything’s okay – I was in a bit of a state when I left him – and I don’t even think it’s been long enough for him to start worrying. Anyway, the point is, I just haven’t processed it at all.”

“That’s all perfectly reasonable,” Aziraphale said with an understanding nod. “To be honest, I understand the feeling. I’d – well, I’d gotten pretty used to the idea of never having you, and to find out you wanted me, too, was… a bit jarring.”

Crowley looked at the angel, a mixture of longing and fondness in his eyes. He had an odd sort of feeling, but _good_ odd, like the absence of a fear so deep that he’d forgotten how it felt to not feel it, and it struck him that that was exactly what it was. He stared openly into Aziraphale’s eyes and understood, in a deep-down, rock-solid kind of way, that he didn’t need to worry about this. He could be honest. He could be vulnerable, and it would be okay.

It was a shock, kind of, but it was also the most obvious thing in the world. He had always known it and he had never expected it. And with all of that, the only thing he could do – the only thing he _wanted_ to do – was lean forward and kiss the angel soundly. 

“I love you,” he murmured simply as he pulled back. “I want you.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath, smoothing his hands down the demon’s arms and back up to rest on his shoulders. “Is there anything in particular that you want?”

The question was innocent, earnest. Crowley nodded his head, his fingers twitching toward the angel’s waist. He spoke slowly, softly, considering his words well before saying them, not because he was afraid, but because he was in no hurry, and he didn’t want to misspeak. “I want to… make love,” he said.

“To me? Or you’d like me to make love to you?”

“Just… I want _us_ to make love, together. The details aren’t of much concern.”

“Darling,” the angel cooed, smiling warmly. He kissed Crowley again, a quick, endeared movement, and then brought tentative hands to the demon’s waist, giving him a questioning look. “May I?”

Crowley hummed an affirmation with a squeaky, ragged edge. “Please.”

The angel didn’t rush to undress him, his plump fingers playing along the hem of the sweater he’d lent the demon only a short time ago. It was a magical thing, to be the one to provide that shelter and comfort for Crowley, and to be the one entrusted with stripping it away. Aziraphale wasn’t about to take it for granted.

He slipped his hands under the knit, broad palms grazing the demon’s hips, his waist, his stomach. He held Crowley for a moment, wrapping his hands around and pressing them into the small of his back, a hot press of skin on skin, but without any urgency. Slowly, slowly, like unwrapping a gift, Aziraphale finally lifted the sweater over the demon’s head, tossed it aside and sat back to behold the sight of him.

There was no room in Crowley’s head for self-consciousness, not that he was generally in the way of covering himself up. Aziraphale finished undressing him with a single-minded reverence, handling him like he was a precious gem, looking at him like he made the whole world turn, and under that gaze, Crowley felt like it was true. 

Blessedly, or damnedly, or something, Crowley was allowed to return the favor, removing the angel’s clothing with a deft, delicate hand. Hesitant touches gradually became bolder, harder, more purposeful. Words and questions became only breaths, airy moans and pleas muttered close against skin.

It was something like bliss, the way they fit together, the way they pushed and pulled and played each other like instruments. It was the firm knowledge that they were everything they needed, that they always had been, and that they had the rest of eternity to learn each other and love each other, the way they should have been always.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered hotly, nipping at the demon’s earlobe.

“I love you,” Crowley panted into the angel’s mouth.

“I love you,” with a kiss to the inside of a wrist.

“I love you,” in response to a tender touch.

“I love you,” as they lay together after it all, naked limbs intertwined, hair splayed messily over sheets and skin, eyes closed except for when they couldn’t bear to not be looking at each other. They reinvented the term _pillow talk_ over the course of several hours.

* * *

After a nebulous amount of time, Crowley suddenly rolled his eyes, sighed in exasperation, and reached across Aziraphale to grab his phone from the nightstand. It was buzzing incessantly. He flopped back over onto his back and began typing, even as he mumbled an offhand apology for the distraction.

Aziraphale didn’t mind the distraction; he still had Crowley lying next to him in his bed, and that was what mattered. Still, he had to ask. “Is everything alright?”

Crowley nodded, his brow furrowed more in concentration than concern. “Yeah, s’fine. Friends just can’t follow instructions.”

Matching the demon’s frown and wrinkled brow, Aziraphale said, “What do you mean?” 

“I was supposed to get drinks with Selma tonight,” the demon explained, “so I texted her earlier to let her know I wouldn’t make it. Said everything was okay, just that I’d be, er, out of commission, so don’t worry if I seem a bit unreachable.”

Head tilted at an angle, Aziraphale hummed a noise of affirmation. “And then what?”

Letting out a deep, long-suffering sigh, Crowley turned the phone to show the angel the screen, which displayed dozens of unread text messages, and the number only kept climbing. “She worried. Texted _everyone_ asking if they knew what was going on with me,” he groaned, “and of course, they didn’t. So now I’ve got them all on my back.”

Aziraphale laughed softly, shaking his head. “I suppose that’s what you get for having friends who care about you,” he teased the demon. “You’d better answer them.”

Crowley looked a bit desperate. “What do I say?”

“Hmm,” the angel said with a feigned pensiveness. “Tell them you’re busy catching up on six thousand years of wasted time.”

“Right,” snorted the demon. “That’ll only raise more questions.”

“Then word it differently, but tell them the truth.” Aziraphale spoke seriously, but not unkindly. “And while you’re at it, send Theodore a message as well.”

The demon paused for a moment, studying Aziraphale’s face, looking for any hint of uncertainty and finding none. He gave a single, resolute nod of his head and typed out two messages, one to send to the group chat and another to send to Theodore, turning the phone to let the angel read it before sending. 

> _**👼** and i are dreadfully in need of some alone time. get you the full story when i’m available. x_
> 
> _it went really well. thanks for knocking some sense into me. i’ll call you tomorrow?_

“That’s perfect,” said the angel with a smile. “I’m going to send that Theodore a gift basket, a really nice one. As a thanks and an apology.”

“He’ll like that,” Crowley said, returning the smile easily, and then his face turned down as a thought crossed his mind. “Ugh. We’ll have to tell everyone back home, too. Anathema's going to kill me.”

“It’ll be fine, darling,” Aziraphale soothed. “Maybe we don’t even bother with all that. Maybe they only find out when they receive wedding invitations in the mail.”

Crowley exhaled in a rush, a surprised little huff escaping him. He froze for a moment, processing, before he gained the wherewithal to ask, almost in a whisper, “You want to marry me?”

Cheeks rapidly heating with a fierce blush, the angel’s eyes went wide. “We don’t have to,” he said quickly, “if you don’t want to.”

“Of _course_ I want to,” the demon replied, fighting the urge to roll his eyes and laugh at the mere suggestion that there was ever a possibility that he would have said no. “I want to,” he repeated softly. “I just didn’t expect – well, I didn’t think you would want to.”

Aziraphale did laugh at that, but Crowley didn’t hold it against him. “I would like nothing more than to have you forever,” he murmured, stroking his fingers lightly down the demon’s cheek. 

Crowley kissed him then, sudden and hungry and deep. Aziraphale reciprocated in full force, leaned into it and grabbed whatever part of the demon that he could reach to pull him in as close as he could get. The angel had been right when he’d talked about catching up on all of their six thousand years. Now that they had opened the floodgates, after denying themselves for millennia and then nursing their furtive desires for months, they simply couldn’t keep their hands and lips and tongues off each other.

They kissed for a long while, not bothering to surface for breath. Crowley pulled away first, his mouth red and tingling from the bruising force of the angel’s lips, a hint of a laugh on his breath. 

“What’s funny?” Aziraphale asked, his voice ragged.

“You should –” Crowley cut himself off with a twinkling giggle, then tried again. “I think you should sell your house.” At the angel’s quizzical expression, he moved to explain: “I mean, I actually _live_ in my house, and you don’t actually live here. So I think you should move in with me, rather than the other way around. Only fair.”

Aziraphale let out a soft laugh, nodding his head. “Alright, you needn’t ask me twice,” he conceded, his warm eyes overflowing with affection. “I’ll move in with you. It’s only fair.”


End file.
